Wrath
by Minerva Aemilius
Summary: Führer President Bradley has been killed in a freak accident, leaving the Wrath homunculus without a host. But a replacement has been found: an unwilling Colonel Roy Mustang. Now Hawkeye and the rest of his team fight to save him, and he struggles to survive, as Wrath takes possession of him and everything he holds dear. AU, Evil!Mustang, mostly Hawkeye POV, Royai.
1. Contingency Plans

I do not own the copyright to Fullmetal Alchemist.

This is an alternate-universe story that begins during the battle with Lust in Laboratory 3 (Chapter 39 of manga, Episode 19 of the Brotherhood anime) and will parallel the series to the end. Spoilers for the whole thing. Rated T for violence, mild profanity, sexual innuendo, and implied threats of rape (nothing graphic or really bad).

Extra disclaimer, since I received a complaint: This story takes Mustang to some dark places. When possessed by Wrath, he does cruel things, including to Hawkeye, that some may find upsetting. This is a dark drama/adventure story with a Royai relationship at its heart, not a fluffy Royai romance. You have been duly warned.

And I know, this is about the millionth "Character X becomes the new homunculus Y!" story ever written. But I hope you like mine anyway. :)

* * *

Chapter 1: Contingency Plans

Father was angry. He wasn't accustomed to feeling such a primitive emotion, and that made him even angrier. The entire situation was unacceptable.

There had been a freak accident, an explosion in an ammunition facility just as Wrath was touring it for inspection. The chain reaction had been so large that more than eighty humans had been killed. Wrath, with his superior vision and speed, had nearly made it out of the blast radius in time—nearly. But he could not avoid being overwhelmed by falling debris as an entire building collapsed on top of him, and he was found crushed under a concrete beam, barely clinging to the last shreds of life. He was bonded to a fully human body, and unlike the other homunculi, did not have the ability to regenerate.

At least his essence had not been lost. There had been just enough time for Father to reabsorb the Philosopher's Stone that coursed through the bloodstream of Wrath's human host. Once that was done, he had left the crushed shell of the man known as Führer President Bradley to wither and die, not giving it a second thought.

There were no suitable hosts left alive. Three dozen male humans had been raised from infancy, educated and militarily trained to serve as a pool of candidates for bonding with the Wrath homunculus. Of those, only Bradley had proven strong enough. All the others had died, some in the initial attempt and the rest today, destroyed by the power of the Philosopher's Stone. The human lives were of no consequence, of course, but they represented an investment of time and resources that could not be recouped. Father needed Wrath to continue serving as the political and military leader of the puppet nation of Amestris, and for that, a human host was necessary. Another would have to be located quickly.

The new host would have to be someone whose will was strong enough to survive the process of bonding with a Philosopher's Stone. Someone for whom wrath was already a familiar emotion. Who was motivated and shaped by the desire for power. And who had sufficient status within the Amestrian military to make succession to its leadership seem plausible.

Father's deliberations were interrupted when Pride, the oldest and most powerful of his children, entered his chamber. "We've just received word that there are intruders in Laboratory 3," said the homunculus, whose appearance was that of a young boy surrounded by tentacles made of shadows. "It's the Flame Alchemist, with a small group of subordinates. I've sent Lust to deal with them."

The timing was fortunate. The Flame Alchemist would make an excellent host, if he survived. "Bring him to me at once," Father ordered. "Alive."

"Yes, Father," replied Pride. "And his companions?"

"They may prove useful in the future. Throw them out, but leave them unharmed."

* * *

"Your timing could have been better, Pride," grumbled Lust. The homunculus in the form of a shapely young woman had just finished mortally wounding the Flame Alchemist, better known as Colonel Roy Mustang, and one of his subordinates, Lieutenant Jean Havoc. Both men were slowly bleeding to death at her feet, although Mustang was still struggling to get up, calling to Havoc and hurling a string of threats and curses at her.

"You've made a mess," snapped Pride. He and Envy had found Lust in the main examination room of Laboratory 3, which was littered with burned debris from a recent explosion, including cooked fat and ashes from previous versions of Lust's body.

"Had some trouble, Lust?" teased Envy. "Looks like they forced you to regenerate your entire body at least twice."

"The Flame Alchemist was very annoying," she concurred.

"Try not to be so sloppy," Pride scolded. He noted that Mustang had stopped struggling and gone quiet—too quiet. Using his shadow appendages, the homunculus grabbed the man's wrists and forced his hands into view. The ignition gloves that the alchemist used to create his flames were in shreds, but in his right hand he clutched a piece of metal debris, which he had been quietly using to carve a transmutation circle onto the back of his left hand. He also held a lighter, which Pride forced him to drop.

"I'm coming after you next, freak," the alchemist threatened with a smirk.

"Pathetic," hissed Pride. "You creatures never stop your pointless flailing." A shadow wound its way around Mustang's neck and squeezed him into unconsciousness, then unceremoniously dropped him.

"Envy, take the Flame Alchemist to Father," Pride ordered. He pointed to Havoc. "Lust, take that one to Dr. Marcoh and have him healed, then turn him loose. I will deal with the other intruders." He headed for the door.

Lust sighed in annoyance and picked up Havoc's unconscious form, as easily as a human would lift a doll. Admittedly, killing him would have been a waste of a handsome plaything. She had gone on several dates with this human as part of an information-gathering assignment, but she had not been able to take him to bed, since the ouroboros markings on her body would have revealed her as a homunculus. It had been quite frustrating—something she decided to remedy as soon as he was healed. Her lips curved into a smile. He probably wouldn't like it, but surely that wouldn't fall under the definition of "harm," now would it?

"Great," Envy was grumbling, as he lifted Mustang with obvious distaste. "We get stuck with the grunt work, as usual." He attempted to sling the alchemist's limp form over his shoulders. While the weight of a human was no issue for Envy either, the body was too bulky to settle comfortably on his slight frame. Unique among the homunculi, he had the ability to change his entire appearance, but his usual form resembled that of a young male teenager. Now he transformed himself into a copy of Major Alex Armstrong, a particularly large, muscular, and shirtless Amestrian solider. "Much better," he grinned, balancing the body playfully on his shoulders.

"Stop screwing around, Envy," Pride snapped, pausing by the door. "And Lust," he added, "you're to turn that human loose _immediately_ after he's healed."

Lust's face fell. "Spoilsport," she muttered.

* * *

Mustang woke up in the dark. He immediately tried to sit up, but couldn't move—something was holding him down. Restraints, he saw through the dimness, strapped over his shoulders, stomach, and legs, binding him tightly in place. He was lying on some kind of bed.

He surveyed his surroundings. It was a large, windowless room, possibly underground, and barely lit. The ceiling, walls and floors were covered with a large number of pipes, leading to a central location that he couldn't see from his restrained position. Then his eyes made out the figure of Major Armstrong standing off to one side, watching him with an uncharacteristically bored expression.

"Armstrong?" he exclaimed. "What are you—" The large man glowed and began to change, shrinking in size and taking on the form of a young man with spiky black hair, an ouroboros tattoo on his left thigh. "Oh," said Mustang. "You're one of them." The figure snickered.

So they had a homunculus who could copy people. That meant the enemy could be anyone, anywhere, he realized with a sinking feeling. Of course they had been caught. They had been woefully outgunned from the beginning, and he had walked his subordinates right into a trap. "Where is Havoc?" he demanded angrily. "Is he all right?" He didn't dare mention Hawkeye or Alphonse, hoping they had escaped undetected. The homunculus continued to snicker, but did not reply.

Mustang had been badly wounded, skewered through the ribs by Lust's blade-like fingernails, along with other injuries. But now he felt no pain at all. He craned his neck until he could see the back of his left hand, where in desperation he had tried to carve a flame alchemy array into his skin. Now the wound was gone, the skin unbroken. They had healed him completely—how? And more importantly, why?

An older man with glasses and a mustache approached, wearing a doctor's coat, and turned on a utility lamp over Mustang's head. Now it was much too bright, and he squinted painfully at the light shining in his eyes. The doctor began prodding at him, murmuring, "Yes, this specimen is in good shape, and still fairly young. He has a good chance." He broke into a grin, revealing a gold-capped front tooth.

"A good chance for what, exactly?" Mustang asked, now even more alarmed.

"Surviving," leered the doctor.

The next to approach was a tall, strange, middle-aged man with long blond hair and a beard, wearing a long white robe. This man was definitely in charge; he moved slowly, with an imposing air, and both the doctor and the homunculus immediately deferred to him. "It is ready?" the man asked, inclining his head toward Mustang, his voice deep and ponderous. "Yes, my lord," responded the doctor.

The blond man stood absolutely still, but his forehead began to glow. As Mustang watched in horror, a crevice slowly opened within the glow, revealing a structure that looked like an eye turned sideways. It began to drip a red substance, which congealed into a blob; when it had reached about the size of large grape, the blob rolled down the man's face, then fell into his outstretched palm.

He turned and presented his hand to the doctor, who carefully scooped the red substance into the mouth of a large syringe. The doctor's expression was reverential, his hands shaking slightly as if with excitement, as he finished assembling the syringe. Mustang swallowed. He had a terrible feeling that whatever that red substance was, they were about to inject him with it.

"What the hell is that?" he exclaimed, struggling futilely inside the restraints. "What are you _doing_?"

The doctor began swabbing the inside of Mustang's right arm with alcohol. "This is the Philosopher's Stone," he grinned. "Isn't it wonderful?" And with no further explanation, he jammed the needle into Mustang's vein.

The pain was like nothing Mustang had ever felt. He seized, and his whole body went rigid, as the substance—whatever it was—coursed through him, invading his entire body. It felt as if acid were running through his veins. He would have screamed in pain if he had been physically able; instead he could only gasp and gurgle as his lungs desperately fought for air. Blackness gripped him as his mind began to warp in out of consciousness. His last coherent thoughts were of the subordinates he had brought with him into Laboratory 3: _Please let them have escaped this.  
_

Amid the agony, he was dimly aware of the blond man peering down over the bed, with a coldly curious gaze that a boy might use to examine an insect. "Will you be the one to accept my wrath?" he intoned. The voice was growing fainter, the image farther away, as if Mustang were falling away from it. "Or will it be someone else…"

* * *

Sometime much later, Mustang felt himself gradually returning to consciousness.

"…an even better specimen than Bradley. He's recovered in less than half the time," the gold-tooth doctor's voice was saying. Mustang opened his eyes, saw that he was addressing the blond man. _Father_, Mustang remembered hazily.

"Even the Ultimate Eye—it's on the right side this time—formed without destroying the original. The iris is hidden, but intact," the doctor continued. He looked over and noticed that Mustang was watching him. "Good. You're awake. How do you feel?"

The haze of the ordeal was fading, and he felt a new energy coursing through his body. "I'm fine. Untie me," he scowled. Now he knew where he was. Father's chamber. Of course he was here; he belonged here.

The doctor unbuckled the restraints, and Mustang sat up. No. Not Mustang, not anymore. Not entirely. _My name is Wrath._

"Welcome back, Wrath," said the spiky-haired youth. Envy. "Nice job getting yourself killed, by the way—"

"_Silence_," ordered Father, and Envy obeyed, albeit with a sour expression. Father strode over to Wrath's bed and circled him, scrutinizing him intently. "You have accepted my Wrath. Are your memories intact?"

"Yes," Wrath responded. "And the memories from this new body, too. It may take some time to sort them out."

"It will not interfere with your duties." A statement, not a question.

"Of course not, Father." Wrath stood up, drawing a deep breath into his new lungs, and gave a perfunctory bow. "I'm ready to resume leading this country, as soon as everything is in place."

"Pride is making the arrangements. We will wait for him to return. Doctor, you are dismissed." The gold-toothed man bowed his head briefly and exited the room without a word. Father continued standing, but his gaze wandered off somewhere into the empty air, lost in contemplation of some deeper matter that Wrath could only guess at. And with that, they waited.

* * *

Envy, feeling quite forgotten, had retreated to a corner to sulk. Newly-formed homunculi always soaked up more than their fair share of Father's attention. And what was he supposed to do with himself while they waited for Pride? He was already bored.

After awhile he noticed that Wrath was eyeing him intently, wearing a thin smile. "What?" asked Envy, annoyed.

"You're the one who killed Maes Hughes."

"Who?" he scoffed. "Wait—that imbecile in the phone booth? Why do you care about that?"

Wrath shrugged. "I don't. But it was quite the obsession for my human host. They were friends, and he swore that he would find the murderer and take revenge. His first experience with genuine wrath." He was still wearing that unnerving smile. "It probably made this bonding possible, in fact."

"You're welcome," snapped Envy. He had never liked Wrath, didn't consider him a true member of their family. None of the other homunculi did either. A body that aged and couldn't regenerate, living with a woman that he picked for himself, and that creepy fake cheerfulness. Wrath was just too…human.

Pride chose that moment to return. "Everything has been arranged," he said to Father as he strode into the chamber. He turned to address Wrath. "Bradley has left a will, appointing you as his successor to the Führer Presidency. He has also left you title to his estate, and guardianship of his son." He smiled ironically.

"Understood," said Wrath. "And my subordinates? There were two others in Laboratory 3, besides the injured one who was with me. Where are they now?"

"They've been released unharmed. The injured one was healed. You can continue to use them as you see fit," Pride responded.

Wrath nodded with satisfaction, then turned to Father. "I presume that, as before, I'll be permitted to choose my own wife?"

"Such trivial matters do not interest me," Father intoned. "Make your own arrangements." He turned his back on the homunculi and strode back to his throne.

"Excellent," Wrath replied with a smirk. "I have just the woman in mind."


	2. Arrangements

Chapter 2: Arrangements

Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye came to on the ground, in the woods. She sat up quickly, gasping. How had she—? Her head was pounding, her throat felt bruised, and the last memory she had was of shadows. And an inability to breathe. She must have been strangled until she passed out, then dumped here.

She was already running. The sun had long since gone down. In the distance she could see the lights of East City, maybe two miles away. It took her twenty minutes to find an identifiable city street, another fifteen to find a phone. And a cab. Within an hour from awakening, she was back at East City Military Headquarters.

It was another hour before Havoc called in, having found himself lying in an abandoned warehouse in the city's industrial district. He remembered being severely wounded by a homunculus named Lust, of being unable to feel his legs, but now found himself mysteriously uninjured.

Alphonse checked in a half hour later. His account of events was more detailed: a homunculus who looked like a little boy, surrounded by shadows, had taken control of his armored body. He had been forced to walk to a quarry outside of town, where he had been buried under ten feet of gravel, and left to dig himself out.

That left only the Colonel unaccounted for. Hawkeye, in command of their team in his absence, sat at his desk, tensely drumming her fingers on its surface, trying not to give in to the anxiety that flooded through her. While there was still a chance that the Colonel would turn up somewhere on the outskirts of town, just as the rest of them had, that possibility was growing more remote by the hour.

If he didn't appear soon, she was more than willing to burst back into Laboratory 3 with guns blazing. But she wouldn't jeopardize her teammates' lives by going in blindly against an enemy capable of defeating them so thoroughly, and so casually. "Before we take action, we need more information about what we're dealing with," she said. "Havoc and Breda, I want you to recon the area around Laboratory 3. Keep a cautious distance and don't engage anyone, unless you find the Colonel, and you aren't in over your heads.

"Falman, I'm sending you to watch the Colonel's house, in case he turns up there. Same orders.

"Fuery, I need you to monitor military and police communications for any information." A radio hobbyist, Fuery had an extensive setup of equipment at the townhouse flat he rented. "You'll also be the point of contact for keeping us all in touch.

"Alphonse, you aren't under my command, but I would appreciate any help you can give us in figuring out what these homunculi are, and how to defeat them. Would you be willing to make an unauthorized research trip to the library?"

It was closed at this hour, but discreetly breaking in would prove no problem for the young alchemist. "I'll do whatever I can to help, Lieutenant," he replied in his metallic voice.

After dismissing the team members, Hawkeye turned to her own task. She had been unable to judge the distance and direction they had traveled beneath Laboratory 3 due to its curved corridors, but she had counted the number of steps they had taken from the front door. Fuery had found her a map of the area, and now she was calculating a radius based on the steps, and drawing a circle of potential locations for the underground room they had found.

Fifteen minutes later, she was interrupted by the sound of the office door opening. She reflexively jumped to her feet, aimed and cocked one of her pistols as the figure entered. Then she gasped. "Colonel!" she exclaimed.

He was wearing an eyepatch over his right eye, and a smug smile. "Did you miss me, Lieutenant?"

His behavior was far too casual for the circumstances. Following her instincts, she kept the gun aimed at him as he approached. "What happened? Are you all right?" she demanded.

"I can honestly say I've never been better." Pausing at a cabinet near the desk, he rummaged inside, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass, and poured himself a drink. "You can put that gun away now."

"Not until I know what happened to you."

He took a swallow of whiskey, and continued to flash that aggravating smile. "I've undergone some…enhancements. And tomorrow, I'm going to be appointed Führer. Smile, Lieutenant. We've achieved our dream." He raised his glass at her as if making a toast, and took another drink.

Her throat had gone dry with dread. "What kind of enhancements, Colonel?"

"Hmm? Well, I suppose you'll be seeing it sooner or later." He removed the eyepatch, and her breath caught. The iris of his right eye was completely gone, replaced by what appeared to be a red tattoo of an ouroboros. Just like the ones on the homunculi they had encountered. She felt her knees threaten to buckle, but she stood taller, steadied her gun.

"By the way," he said nonchalantly. "Once I'm Führer, I'll be needing a wife. I think you'll make a fine choice."

She pulled the trigger.

Then she was no longer holding the gun. She found herself staring into Mustang's eyes—such as they were—and felt a constriction around her throat. She heard a crash of glass splintering.

It took her a moment to understand what had happened. He had moved with inhuman speed, so quickly that he had dodged her bullet, then closed the distance between them and disarmed her before the glass he'd dropped had time to hit the floor. And now his hand was on her throat. Not choking her, but clearly threatening. He was angry.

"That was not the response to my proposal I was hoping for, Lieutenant," he growled. He still wore a smile, but now it had grown menacing. She tried to pull free, but his other hand gripped both her wrists. He was incredibly strong.

She needed to buy time, wait for him to drop his guard. She forced herself to smile. "But, sir," she said sweetly, "this is so sudden."

He chuckled. "Is it?" He took his hand from her throat and moved closer, keeping hold of her wrists. "I want you, Riza. I have for a very long time. And you want me. I wasn't sure of that before, but this new eye shows me everything." His smirk grew wider. "In fact, you're in love with me. I can see that very clearly now."

There was no point in denying the truth. "These enhancements," she asked quietly. "Are they reversible?"

"Of course not."

"Then I'm afraid you're mistaken, sir," Hawkeye said softly. "The man I love is dead." She abruptly twisted and kicked free of his hold, and bolted for the door.

There was a blur of motion, and she found him standing in her way. She backed up to the other side of the room, pulling one of her other guns from its holster and aiming it at him. He advanced toward her slowly, still smirking. She could not defeat him, could not even get out of this room. And if what he'd said was true, the Colonel was gone forever. There was nothing she could do to save him. She cocked the gun.

"I told you to put the gun away, Riza. Your bullets can't hurt me."

"We'll see," she said with a sad smile. Then she aimed the gun at her own head and pulled the trigger.

The report of the weapon so close to her ear was deafening. But she wasn't dead. Her arm had been forced up into the air, a bullet hole smoking from the ceiling, the gun sent flying. And now she found herself staring into both of Mustang's eyes. The ouroboros was gone. "_Lieutenant—_" he said through gritted teeth, his eyes stricken with emotion, "_—don't!_"

"Colonel!" she cried. It was the real man—he was still alive! She pulled her arm free, took his face in her hands. "Can you get control?"

"No," he gasped. "He's too strong." He was shaking with the effort, struggling to talk. His hands gripped her shoulders. "Get out of Amestris. Take the team, and everyone you can. Not safe here."

"We're not leaving you behind! Tell me what they're planning."

"I can't hold—" His right eye was weaving in its socket, a physical manifestation of his struggle with the homunculus inside him. A struggle he was losing. "Lieutenant," he managed to smile, "I love you t—" Then the right eye rolled up into its socket, burying the iris and restoring the ouroboros.

She felt a hand close around her throat again, tighter this time. The Colonel was gone, and the creature that had replaced him was now very, very angry.

"I accept your proposal," she gasped.

The hand loosened its grip, and the rage in the creature's eye began to dissipate. "A wise decision," he smiled icily. He let her go completely and stood back, as she caught herself against the wall.

"I'll make the arrangements," he said, turned and strode for the door. "You'll be allowed to move freely as long as you don't cause trouble. But move against me, and I'll start killing your teammates." He paused by the door. "And your grandfather." Then he was gone.

This time her knees did buckle, and she slid to the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her head to her knees for several moments, taking deep breaths. _Get up_, she ordered herself. She didn't have the luxury of falling apart. There was work to do.

Hawkeye climbed to her feet, picked up the closest phone and dialed Fuery. "Contact the whole team and have them meet at your place immediately," she ordered. "Start with Falman. Get him away from the Colonel's house—if he sees him, under _no_ circumstances is he to engage. Got it?" "Understood," answered Fuery. She hung up.

She retrieved both of the guns that had been knocked out of her hands, replacing them in their holsters as she hurried out the door.

_I will get you back, Colonel_, she vowed._ Whatever it takes. I promise you. _

Her desperate action had accomplished what she'd hoped, and proven that the Colonel was still alive. But she hadn't been bluffing when she'd pointed that gun at her head. If he really had been lost forever, her own death would have been a comfort. It was her one real weakness. One way or another, she had no intention of living in a world without him.

* * *

At Fuery's townhouse, Hawkeye delivered the grim news to her teammates without emotion. "The creature didn't give its name, but since the others we've encountered all seem to be named after the Seven Deadly Sins, and given its temperament, I'm going to assume it's called Wrath.

"It seems to be a distinct individual from the Colonel, but it's copied him somehow. It has all his memories, and a lot of his personality. And it seems to share some of the same, um, motivations." She took a deep breath. "So we've got to assume that it knows everything we know. Our codes, our tactics, everything."

The team members reacted to the news with shock and anger. Things only grew worse when she told them about the creature's bizarre proposal. "It's a strictly tactical move," she added hastily, covering for her own discomfort. "He needs a wife for his position as Führer. Choosing me allows him to keep an eye on an enemy at the same time, so it's convenient." It was an explanation no one had asked for. "And I accepted for the same reason. It's the best chance for us to collect intelligence on whatever this thing is."

Shocked silence hung over the room. The pained expressions of her teammates were difficult for her to look at.

"Lieutenant," Fuery finally broke the silence. "…Will you really be all right?"

She smiled, wearing considerably more confidence than she felt. "I'll be fine, Fuery. Remember, I keep the Colonel in line every day. I can handle his evil twin." But it wasn't the same thing at all, and they knew it.

"No," Havoc said finally. "You can't be serious. No way we're letting you do this."

Breda agreed. "Havoc's right—it's not safe. There's no way we can fight this thing, Hawkeye. Not if it knows everything the Colonel knows. We don't stand a chance."

Falman nodded in agreement. "This doesn't look good, Lieutenant. And the Colonel must think so too, if he ordered us to leave the country—"

The team members were all talking over one another now, as if in competition over whose assessment of their situation was most bleak. Only Alphonse said nothing, sitting quietly in a corner, staring uncertainly at his hands.

Hawkeye closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and tried not to give into the panic and despair washing over her. She had never wanted to be a commanding officer. She didn't want to be responsible for making decisions that could risk her fellow soldiers' lives. Or for motivating them to action, or raising their morale. But now there was no one else. She opened her eyes.

"_Listen to me!_" she shouted. The room went silent, and she continued tersely. "You don't need me to tell you that we are in a very desperate place right now. We've lost our commanding officer. He is now, for all intents and purposes, the property of the enemy. They will use every piece of him against us, if they can. And we still have no idea what they want, or what they're planning.

"But we are _not_ giving up. We owe it to the Colonel to fight them with everything we've got. If this thing knows our tactics, we change them. If it knows our codes, we invent new ones. Tonight, before we leave this room.

"And we do what we always do. We find out what this thing is planning, and we stop it. We figure out its weakness, and we defeat it. And we get our Colonel back. Whatever it takes, we get it done. _Do you understand me?_"

"Yes ma'am!" responded her team members, sounding more encouraged now. Even Alphonse chimed in.


	3. Chain of Command

Chapter 3: Chain of Command

There was a lot going on inside Wrath's new head.

The first time he had bonded with a human, some forty years ago, he had been newly-formed from Father's essence with no memories of his own. Several thousand human souls had been used to create his Philosopher's Stone, but they were merely fuel, who left no traces once they were consumed. He had been a blank slate, and he and his human host had quickly merged into a single entity. To those of his own kind, he was still Wrath, a homunculus created to serve Father and do his bidding. To humans, he became Führer President Bradley, undisputed ruler of Amestris. But they were merely different names for the same individual.

Bonding with his new host was a different matter. Wrath, who had already lived a lifetime of his own, now found himself tangled in two fully-formed sets of memories and motivations, two personalities. He was still himself. But now he was _also_ Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, with that man's lifetime of experiences, thoughts, and desires.

It complicated everything he did, even the simple task of driving home that he was currently performing. Home was the sprawling Bradley estate in an affluent suburb, where he lived with his wife and son…and it was also a narrow rental house in the city, which he shared with no one. Driving a car was a thrilling, liberating thing he hadn't done for himself in years…and a mundane task that he performed every day. And so on.

As a result, he felt great excitement at finally realizing his life's ambition to become Führer, despite already having held that position for two decades. And he vowed to use this new position of military and political leadership to protect the people of this country, defending them with his own life if necessary, right up until it was time for Father to destroy them. Wait—what was he saying? For a few moments, Wrath's head swam with conflicting emotions, as half of him recoiled at the thought.

But he recovered control quickly. His human host was strong and stubborn, but there was no question of whose will was more powerful. Amestris would be destroyed on the Promised Day, and he would help make it happen. It was not even a question. Until that day came, of course, he could protect the country as much as he liked.

And now Riza would be his wife. He felt himself smile. She had always been an unspoken part of his dream; whenever he had envisioned himself becoming Führer, it was with her at his side. Her presence in his life inspired him, kept him on the straight path, reminded him of all the wrongs in his past that he desperately needed to put right. But she was so much more than that. He had been in love with her for so long that he could not even remember when it had happened.

Of course, she was merely a tool, a prop for his performance as Führer President, just like his current wife. However pleasant her company, if she proved too troublesome, he would have to dispose of her—No! He could never do that!—But his duty as a homunculus, his loyalty to Father would demand it. He would have no choice.

Now the inner conflict had grown too extreme, and Wrath felt his mind recoil in earnest, struggling with itself until it split in two—

* * *

—and for just a moment, Roy Mustang, the man, looked at the world through his own eyes.

He struggled to stay in control, to stay whole and lucid and separate, stay _himself_, resist the sick violation of Wrath's control. He needed to get back to his team members, to warn them of Father's plans. With his hands locked onto the steering wheel, he poured all the strength he could muster into turning the car from its current path. But it was like fighting to keep his head above water in a raging river. Its currents were too strong to fight, overwhelming him, inevitably pulling him back down—

* * *

—and Wrath regained control, yanking the steering wheel back into position, while narrowly avoiding swerving off the road.

He cursed angrily. The bonding should be going more smoothly than this! Whatever his human vessel might once have wanted, no matter how badly, should now be subservient to Wrath's will. But watching Riza Hawkeye put a gun to her head had been so shocking and devastating to Mustang that it had disrupted the whole process, shattering its equilibrium. It had given the man the strength he needed for his soul to break free from Wrath's grip, even to take control of his body for a few moments at a time. Damn that woman; she was dangerous!

He breathed deeply, calming his rage. All right. All the better to keep her close, keep an eye on her. She posed no real threat, he reminded himself. The misbehavior of his human host, however inconvenient, was only a temporary hiccup. The situation would merely need to be managed until the bonding process was complete.

In the meantime, it was going to be glorious being Führer. He felt his smile return.

He was still Roy Mustang. He still held the memories of the man called Bradley. Above all else, he was still Wrath, the homunculus. And what he wanted from his strange existence was very complicated indeed.

* * *

The following day, there was a formal announcement that Führer President Bradley had died from injuries sustained in the munitions plant explosion, and that he would be succeeded by his handpicked successor, Colonel Roy Mustang. The top generals were unanimous in confirming the appointment, and the swearing-in ceremony was held immediately.

The selection of a relatively young and low-ranked officer—and one with a reputation as a lazy playboy—left many in the rank and file scratching their heads. But no one wanted to argue against the wishes of the late Führer, who had been much loved by his troops. Bradley must have thought very highly of Mustang to leave him not only the Führer Presidency, but even custody of his own son. Besides, if Mustang were really such a slacker, how could he have been promoted to Colonel at such a young age? And hadn't he been hailed as the Hero of Ishval? There must be more to him than met the eye, it was grudgingly agreed.

The fact that he was suddenly wearing an eyepatch similar to the late Führer President, the result of a recent hunting accident, was another oddity that garnered much discussion. But that was ultimately deemed too weird to be anything but coincidence by all but a few die-hard conspiracy theorists.

With that reasoning, the murmurings soon quieted down, and the soldiers of the Amestrian military accepted their new leader.

* * *

Shortly after being sworn in, Führer President Mustang announced his upcoming nuptials to Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. The time had come for him to settle down, he explained. He needed a wife to support him in his new position, and to help him raise his newly-adopted son Selim. It was good for the Führer to be a family man, he added, to set an example for the nation.

One of his first official acts was to write himself an exemption to the military regulation prohibiting married officers from serving together as commanding officer and subordinate, since he intended to have Hawkeye continue working as his aide. An executive privilege reserved for himself alone.

"I had always planned on doing that when I became Führer," he told her, flashing a grin. "Assuming you were cooperative." They were walking up the front walkway of the Bradley mansion, preparing to tour the home where they would begin living after the wedding. "How presumptuous," she muttered. She wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face with her fist.

Mrs. Bradley was a kindly matron, with eyes faintly red and puffy from crying, who seemed tired and a bit overwhelmed—the very picture of a normal woman mourning her dead husband. She settled them in the living room and busied herself in the kitchen making tea. If she understood that her husband hadn't been entirely human, that he wasn't precisely dead, and that much of him now inhabited the body of the new Führer, she gave no hint.

Bradley's will stipulated that his widow would continue to live in the house with them and help care for Selim. "She'll manage the domestic affairs of the household in your place, since you'll be working," Wrath informed Hawkeye. "Which is just as well. You and I both know you're useless at the womanly arts," he mocked. "Fine with me," Hawkeye shrugged. Was that supposed to be an insult? It was a strangely old-fashioned thing to say, something she would have expected from a man of Bradley's generation. In fact, everything about the way he said it, from the tone of voice to the mannerisms accompanying it, could have come from the older man's lips.

Mrs. Bradley, entering the living room with the tea tray as he was talking, recognized it too, freezing in reaction for a heartbeat's length. Then she continued on, setting the tray down in front of them with a calm smile as if nothing was wrong. "Just for a moment, you reminded me of my husband," she murmured. "When he was younger. I supposed it must be the eyepatch." Wrath gave her an indifferent smile in return.

After tea, Wrath occupied himself looking through the household financial paperwork, while Hawkeye was permitted to explore the house and grounds on her own. With a practiced soldier's eye, she cataloged entrance and exit points, sniper vantages, and potential escape routes. As she wandered, she grimly contemplated the life she would live in this house.

How seriously did Wrath expect her to take their "marriage"? Did he actually expect her to share his bed? Well, she would confront that issue when the time came. She stifled a shudder and pushed it out of her mind for the time being.

There would be other changes. She had already decided to leave behind her beloved dog Hayate, since she was not about to bring a small animal into a home with a creature of Wrath's temperament. With considerable regret, she had handed custody over to Fuery, who she knew would give him a good home. She would also be leaving behind her guns, although not by choice; Wrath had already confiscated them. ("These are too dangerous for you to have," he had smirked. "I never know where you're going to point them.") Irrationally, of all the terrible changes he was wreaking on her life, that was the one she could least forgive.

As she passed through the garden, she turned a corner and nearly collided with a dark figure. She jumped backwards, automatically assuming a defensive stance.

It was a young boy, perhaps ten years old. "Hello," he beamed. "I didn't mean to startle you. You must be Riza. My new stepmother."

"Hello, Selim," she replied. "Nice to meet you." It was anything but nice. She sensed the same dark bloodlust as when she had fought Gluttony, and when she had angered Wrath. Alphonse had warned her that one of the homunculi had the appearance of a little boy. "But Selim isn't your real name, is it?" she continued. "Which one are you? Envy? Sloth?"

His cherubic smile disappeared. Several shadowy tendrils shot out from his body and seized her wrists and neck. He gave a warning squeeze.

"I see that we're disposing with the pretenses," he growled. "My name is _Pride_, human. I suggest you remember that. You may be Wrath's favorite toy, but you're nothing but trash to me."

She kept her voice calm. "Does Mrs. Bradley know? What you are, what her husband was?"

The shadow bonds tightened, and his face took on a vicious scowl. "She doesn't know. And if you tell her, I will tear you apart, one limb at a time."

She forced herself to smile. "Wrath wouldn't like that."

"Wrath will do as he's told." A shadow passed over her right cheek, nicking her skin like a blade. "If you cross me, I will kill you, and no one will come to your rescue," he menaced. "I'll be watching you from the shadows." He pushed her to the ground, then melted into the shadow of the garden wall and disappeared.

She climbed back to her feet, brushing herself off. Now she had two homunculi to contend with: terrific. She closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead. Her circumstances were growing grimmer by the day.

All right, she reflected as she continued her survey of the garden. So Pride was in charge, or thought he was. Or he was bluffing. Either way, there was tension between the two homunculi. She would find some way to use that. Whatever happened, however grim things became, she would focus on the mission.


	4. Til Death Do Us Part

Chapter 4: 'Til Death Do Us Part

Standing in an antechamber of Central City's largest civic assembly hall, Hawkeye took a deep breath, smoothed the stiff blue wool of her dress uniform, and waited for her cue. Wrath had wasted no time, and had scheduled the wedding just three days after his swearing-in ceremony. It was about to begin.

Now he was Führer and she was about to become his wife, in a twisted parody of everything she had ever wished for. This was suddenly becoming very real. And frightening. She wanted to run away, to yell, to open fire on something, but instead she clamped down on those emotions, and focused her mind on getting through the task ahead.

She checked her appearance in the mirror, straightening her lapels and military insignia. Not a fan of wedding ceremonies even under normal circumstances, she had seen no reason to celebrate this one. She hadn't taken any particular care with her appearance, wearing no more makeup or jewelry than on a normal workday. Her only nod to the occasion was that she hadn't clipped her hair into its usual bun, but had instead left it flowing loosely over her shoulders.

She heard the opening strains of the song customarily used to start military weddings—her cue—and stepped out of the antechamber into the hall's foyer. Her grandfather, General Grumman, was waiting for her, concern evident in his eyes. They had not been permitted to speak before the ceremony, and now, taking his arm, she could offer him nothing but a rueful half-smile as he escorted her down the aisle under the watchful eyes of Amestris' military and political elite, and an unknown number of homunculi.

Waiting on the assembly hall's grand stage, the groom was handsome in his dress uniform, sword and eyepatch, and looked exceedingly pleased with himself. Hawkeye avoided making eye contact as she took her place next to him. She listened impassively as the magistrate droned through the ceremony, speaking the proper responses when required of her.

"…Citizens of Amestris, we are gathered here today…"

"…Do you, Elizabeth Hawkeye, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband…"

"…If anyone knows any reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony…"

"…I now pronounce you man and wife…"

When it was over, she stood woodenly in acquiescence of the ceremonial kiss. Wrath leaned in with a smug grin, his one visible eye glittering with satisfaction. But his kiss was surprisingly gentle, and when she pulled back, she realized suddenly that she was looking at the Colonel. He managed to smile sadly at her for just a moment, and then he was gone. In the next moment, the groom's face wore a profound look of irritation.

The next required step in the process was the wedding reception. Hawkeye (if that wasn't technically her name anymore, she had no intention of thinking herself in any other way) had to stand next to Wrath as a line of military dignitaries filed by, shaking their hands and offering congratulations. He had warned her that there would be consequences if she was not on her best behavior, so she wore a bland smile and gave the expected replies. None of her team members had been invited—evidently they were not important enough—nor any other State Alchemists.

At the end of the line, forced to wait until the supply of officers was exhausted, was Madam Christmas, the Colonel's foster mother. Hawkeye took another deep breath. She had never met the woman, and had no idea how much her foster son had revealed to her about his condition. She did know that Madam, who owned a popular hostess bar that served as a cover for information gathering and political influence peddling, could be a vital ally. This would likely be her only chance to make contact.

"Hiya, kid. Nice to finally meet you," Madam said gruffly, shaking Hawkeye's hand with an iron grip. Her eyes glanced sideways at Mustang, occupied with glad-handing a minor general. "Sorry it's under these circumstances," she added in a murmur. The older woman knew everything, Hawkeye was now certain. She could see the same fake smile, the same eyes full of repressed grief that she herself wore.

"It's nice to meet you too," replied Hawkeye, then impulsively leaned over and gave her Madam a hug. She made sure her long blonde hair fell in front of her lips, shielding them from Wrath's view, and whispered, "Will you help us?" Then she pulled back with a friendly smile.

"You too, kiddo," Madam said casually, clapping her hand on Hawkeye's arm, as if they had just exchanged meaningless pleasantries. But she also gave a nearly imperceptible nod, understanding glinting in her eyes, before moving on to exchange insincere well-wishes with the creature possessing her foster son.

Once the receiving line duties were concluded, Wrath wrapped his arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and guided her into a nearby corner, screened from the guests' view by decorative greenery. His hand gripped her arm hard enough to cause real pain. "What did you say to Madam Christmas?" he demanded angrily. "Neither of you is sentimental enough to hug the other. What did you say?"

She looked him in the eye. "I said, 'I'm sorry for your loss,'" she offered curtly. "Because I know exactly how she must be feeling right now. Am I allowed to have a single human emotion on my wedding day, _sir?_" For just a moment, she allowed her eyes to well up with tears. The Colonel wouldn't have fallen for it; he knew her too well. But this creature wasn't the Colonel. Not entirely.

Frowning angrily, he relaxed his grip, scanning her face for deception. After a moment, still annoyed but apparently satisfied, he turned her around and gave her a small shove back into the corridor.

The celebratory banquet that followed was nearly intolerable. The newlyweds' table was filled with high-ranking generals, with whom Hawkeye was required to engage in pleasant small talk. The process was periodically interrupted by the increasingly intoxicated guests banging forks on champagne glasses en masse, signaling that the bride and groom were to stop whatever they were doing and kiss each other for the crowd's amusement, something she would have found irritating under the happiest of circumstances. There were no repeat visits from the Colonel. She ate very little of her dinner, and tasted less.

After dinner came the final bout of enforced merriment, this time in the form of dancing. The first dance at a wedding was traditionally between the bride and her father (or closest available substitute), who would then symbolically hand his daughter off to dance with the groom for the remainder of the evening. Another trite and vaguely demeaning custom. But at least it meant that Hawkeye would finally have a few moments to talk to her grandfather.

Making sure to tilt her head forward so that her hair shielded their conversation, she quickly filled Grumman in on everything she knew, including Wrath's threats against him. The older man sighed. "I knew something was wrong when he called to tell me about the wedding. And when my calls to you wouldn't go through. But I had no idea things were this insane.

"Listen to me, granddaughter," Grumman continued sternly. "I'm going to tell you two things: First, do whatever has to be done, and don't worry about me. I'm an old soldier. I know the risks of battle. And I'd rather die than be used against you as a hostage.

"Second, whatever you feel for the real Roy Mustang, do _not_ let it cloud your judgment. If you find yourself with an opening, you need to kill that thing. Don't think, don't feel, don't hesitate. That's an order. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye responded tersely. She spent the remainder of their dance miserably contemplating the possibility of having to watch her grandfather die, or kill the man she loved, or both. As she waited to be handed over to the arms of a monster.

She really hated weddings.

* * *

"No," said Hawkeye, arms folded defiantly.

Wrath's predictable temper was working its way to a boil. "May I remind you, my dear, that you are now my _wife_, and this is our _wedding night_." They were in their new home, standing in a spare bedroom that Hawkeye had claimed for herself. He was understandably upset that she had not joined him in the master bedroom.

"No."

She was taking a gamble. She had known what she was getting into when she accepted his proposal, and she was genuinely prepared to do whatever she needed to do. It was the Colonel's beautiful body, and he was still in it somewhere, and if it came to that, she supposed she could manage. But only if it came to that.

He tried a different tack, smiling through clenched teeth. "It's perfectly natural for you to be nervous at a time like this, Riza. Any woman would be." He had slipped into the old-fashioned, Bradley mode again. "I can assure you that I'll be gentle."

She suppressed a laugh. Did this creature really think it would be her first time? "That's hardly the issue. The answer is no."

His smile curled into a snarl. "I could force you."

"You could." While her hand-to-hand combat skills were excellent, and she could easily defeat a man of Mustang's size, she would not be able to counter this creature's inhuman speed and strength. "But we both know that isn't what you want."

It was too late; his anger was boiling over. His hands gripped her shoulders hard, and he shoved her down into a sitting position onto the bed. "You _will_—" he began to growl. But now the ouroboros in his eye was weaving. Wrath was losing control.

In a moment, she was staring into both of the Colonel's eyes. He managed a smile. "I won't let that bastard touch you," he gasped.

Her gamble had paid off, again. "Thank you," she smiled back with relief. Her eyes scanned his. "Can you stay this time, Colonel?"

"No. Can't do this for long." He took his hands from her shoulders and stood up, with difficulty. "Need to warn you what they're planning. A human transmutation circle, over all of Amestris." He was struggling to get the words out. "If you can't stop it, get out of the country."

"What—"

"In the Spring. There'll be an eclipse. They call it the Promised Day." He moved away from her, toward the door. "Lieutenant, next time I take control, be ready. To kill me."

"No!" She stood up, shock in her eyes. "We'll find another way—"

He shook his head slowly. "No other way to kill Wrath. Not my first choice either." His right eye was beginning to roll upwards in its socket. "It's—an order. Remember—your promise from that day."

Then the ouroboros and Wrath's snarl were back. He took a menacing step towards Hawkeye, but the eye began weaving again, stopping only when he took a step back. The Colonel would let him go no further. Breathing heavily with rage, he picked up a vase from a nearby table and hurled it at her. She ducked as it smashed into the wall above her head.

"It won't work, you know," he taunted, still seething. "You're not strong enough to kill me, and nothing you do will interfere with our plans." Then he gave her a chilling smile. "Don't worry, my dear. When the Promised Day comes, you'll be protected. I plan to keep you close to me." He turned and strode imperiously out of the room.

She locked and barricaded the door behind him, then sagged onto the bed, sighing with relief that he had gone. But the Colonel's warning…and more importantly, his order. She buried her face in her hands. He had invoked her promise, the one she had made when he had recruited her to his team. That she would kill him if he ever became corrupted by power. It was hardly a fair description of what had happened to him; but he had given her an order, the same one her grandfather had given. And unless she could find another way to defeat Wrath, she knew she would have no choice but to obey it.


	5. Behind Enemy Lines

Chapter 5: Behind Enemy Lines 

As the days passed, Wrath made several more attempts at his unique brand of "seduction," none of them more successful than the first. Hawkeye's refusals continued to enrage him. She had long since removed the small breakable objects from her bedroom surfaces, then the larger ones, then any portable pieces of furniture. Her increasingly sparse room now sported three fist-sized holes in the wall near the door. But the Colonel's intervention always stopped matters from going any further; each time, Wrath backed off as soon as the ouroboros began to move.

It worried her that Wrath continued to make these attempts. It suggested that at some point, he expected to succeed.

Regardless, she was relieved that the Colonel had not needed to take complete control during any of those times. He had ordered her to kill him the next time it happened, and she was bound by that order. Even though it would destroy her, she was prepared to fulfill her promise and do as he had instructed.

With her guns confiscated, and herself under surveillance both at home and at work, the sole weapon she had been able to lay hands on was one her grandfather had given her years ago: an ordinary-looking letter opener that concealed a dagger. It had been a birthday present, his teasing comment on her habit of wearing her guns to work every day, even though most days she faced no more serious threat than paperwork. She had kept it in her desk at the office, a private joke that she had never bothered sharing with her teammates, which meant that Wrath didn't know she had it.

Now she carried the dagger on her at all times, ready to use it without hesitation if she had to, hoping fervently that she never would.

* * *

Whatever happened between them the night before, they managed a sort of détente over the breakfast table.

Mealtimes in the Bradley household had always been a daily charade in which the occupants ate together and pretended to be a family, entirely for the benefit of Mrs. Bradley. Neither Wrath nor Pride saw any reason to change that habit now. Pride's relationship with the older woman hadn't changed, and Wrath remained very fond of her.

That became confusing at times. There had already been a few occasions when Wrath had nearly put his arm around his former wife, or almost leaned in to kiss her goodbye as he prepared to leave the house, strictly from habit. If Mrs. Bradley noticed these lapses, she never said so. Then again, she had undoubtedly noticed a great many unusual things about her husband and child over the years, which she never spoke of aloud. She was gifted with two things that made her, in Wrath's mind, an ideal wife: self-delusion and obedience.

How he missed being obeyed! There was no question that Riza was proving to be a bitter disappointment. He had known she wouldn't be anywhere near as compliant as Mrs. Bradley, but he hadn't expected things to go this badly. The bedroom situation was simply intolerable. At least he had found another outlet; his fellow homunculus Lust was very agreeable company, enough to satisfy him for the moment. He could wait a little longer. In the meantime, he and his new wife pretended to be civil, and exchanged fake smiles over breakfast.

It always ended up with just the two of them. After they finished eating, Pride and Mrs. Bradley would leave to perform the additional charade of "getting Selim ready for school." (That Pride went along with this foolishness, day after day, spoke volumes about his fondness for his pretend mother, however he might insist otherwise.) But Wrath preferred to linger over coffee and read the newspaper. Since Riza was obliged to ride with him to the office, she did the same over tea.

Today, she cleared her throat. "Something I've been meaning to ask you. Now that all my things have been moved over to the new office, I can't find your gloves." She had always kept a half-dozen spare pairs of his ignition gloves, critical to his flame alchemy, in a locked briefcase. Only the two of them knew the combination, although she changed it frequently and he almost never remembered what it was. "That's no longer your concern," he said curtly, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.

"You don't trust me with them?" she asked, feigning innocence. "Or is there some other reason?"

"If this is an attempt to get me to reveal information, it's not working."

She stared quietly into her teacup for a few moments. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," she murmured, swirling the liquid idly. "I would think you'd be disappointed if I didn't."

"True." He flashed her a smug smile over the paper. Her casual manner was also feigned. Riza was very good at suppressing any outward sign of emotion, good enough to fool almost any human. But he could see things humans couldn't: the pulse in her throat as her heartbeat quickened, small increases in respiration, dilation of the pupils. Behind her smile, she was afraid of him, all the time. He felt an odd tinge of regret about that.

"Fine," he said indulgently, laying the newspaper aside. "Ask me a question, and I'll answer. It's not like you can hurt me, no matter what you know."

Concealing surprise, she took a deep breath. "OK," she began. "What are you, exactly? You've copied the Colonel's memories, and some of his personality traits. How?"

"Not copied. Absorbed," he said nonchalantly, lifting his coffee cup. "You need to stop thinking of Roy Mustang as a separate entity. His soul is a part of me now. They aren't his memories anymore, they're mine." He took a drink.

Her eyebrows rose. More feigned calmness. "Then who am I talking to when the ouroboros disappears?"

He gestured in annoyance with the cup, and sighed. "The absorption isn't entirely finished yet. This human has…a particularly stubborn sense of individuality. On a couple of occasions, he's managed to separate from me and regain control of this body. But only for a few moments, mainly when he thought you were in some kind of imminent danger." He was smirking. "Don't get your hopes up, my dear. It won't be an issue for much longer. Every day, he gets a little weaker, and I absorb a little more of his soul. It won't be long before the bonding process is complete, and permanent. Then," he smiled meaningfully, "you and I can finally have our wedding night, without any unpleasant interruptions."

He could see that his words were provoking a strong emotional reaction: hostility, fear, sadness. But Riza's placid expression never changed, her hands never trembled.

"I see," she said after a few moments. "And _if_ this day should come, and you manage to fully absorb the Colonel's soul," she asked with a faint smile, her eyes boring into him over her teacup, "do you really believe that you'll still be the one in control?"

"Of course. Don't be ridiculous."

Her eyes didn't waver. "I wouldn't bet on that," she said, and now she wore a smirk that mirrored his own.

* * *

Hawkeye had willingly allowed herself to be imprisoned in Wrath's house for one reason only: to gather information that she could use to destroy him—just him—and save the Colonel. To that end, she took in every detail she could, constantly reviewing and analyzing even the smallest pieces of information. And she was learning quite a bit.

There was ample time to mull over all the information in her new position as the Führer President's aide. While she was too loyal to consider it an improvement, Wrath was far more diligent in getting his work done than the Colonel had been, and her own workload was much lighter as a result. She could take her time writing reports and memos, choosing her words carefully, while considering the most recent findings. As she did now, while typing up a request for General Gardner to report on recruitment efforts in the West City region.

This morning's revelation at breakfast had been both illuminating and alarming. She didn't know, yet, what implications it had for freeing the Colonel, but it was an important piece of information. It also confirmed what she had already suspected: that their time was limited, and they needed to act quickly.

There was no way of knowing how long the bonding process would take, or what signs she should look for. But she was watching Wrath's speech and mannerisms very closely for clues. When they were alone together, he tended to act more like the Colonel; but when he interacted with Pride and Mrs. Bradley, when he was performing his duties as Führer President, or when he was angry, he reminded her much more of Bradley. He sometimes switched back and forth between personas rapidly, but in general, whichever half of Wrath's personality was most familiar with a given situation appeared to be the dominant one at that moment. If she saw a significant change to that pattern, she would consider it a warning sign.

From a more practical perspective, she had also observed that Wrath had a blind spot, at least while his eyepatch was on. She had determined this through careful testing at the office, circling behind him while writing notes down on her clipboard. The two times she had written something down while standing in this location, he had seized her clipboard afterward and read the contents. She made sure that she wrote only the most innocuous notes during these experiments, and wore an innocent and confused expression when he reacted. But she was also certain that he knew exactly what she was doing.

Perhaps the most significant piece of information she had come across was the disappearance of his ignition gloves. He had taken the spare gloves from her, but he had not asked her for the combination to the briefcase. She had searched his office repeatedly when he was away at meetings and found no sign of them. She had also searched his coat when he left it unguarded, and enlisted Mrs. Bradley to check his uniform pockets as she collected his laundry. There was no indication that he was carrying the gloves with him at any time. That strongly suggested that Wrath was unable to use flame alchemy, or probably any alchemy at all.

But if that were all there were to it, why had he confiscated the spare gloves? As they both knew intimately, there was no other alchemist capable of using flame alchemy. It was a precise discipline that had taken the Colonel months to learn and years to perfect, even with access to all her father's notes. And the keys to deciphering those notes, as they also both knew intimately, had since been destroyed. Even if Hawkeye gave the gloves to another alchemist, he or she would have no way of learning how to use them.

Unless she gave them to the one alchemist who already knew.

The fact that Wrath had refused to explain why he'd taken the gloves—and treated her question as an attempt to gain tactical information—told her something very important. _Wrath_ couldn't use alchemy, but the _Colonel_ still could. And if the Colonel had access to his gloves when he took control, he would be a threat to Wrath. It couldn't mean anything else.

Hawkeye finished typing the memo to General Gardner, proofread it carefully, and decided she was satisfied. Together with a stack of other reports awaiting attention, she took it into the Führer President's office, where Wrath read and initialed each one while she waited, then handed them back to her for mailing without comment. If he had any indication that his wife and aide spent most of her day plotting to destroy him, he gave no sign.

* * *

Later that evening at home, Wrath headed for the front door, preparing to go out for the night. Tonight's visit to Riza's bedroom had been no more fruitful than the previous ones. He should really stop letting her get the better of his temper, he thought as he rubbed the bruised knuckles of his right hand, which had deposited yet another hole in her wall. It was going to be some time before his human vessel allowed him complete freedom of movement, and she clearly wasn't going to stop her obstinate behavior until that happened. But he couldn't resist trying, just the same.

"Where are you going, Wrath?" Pride was abruptly blocking his way.

"To see Lust."

The boy arched an eyebrow in disapproval. "Again? How many nights has it been this week?"

"All of them. Also, none of your concern. You're in my way."

Pride didn't move. "In other words, your new _wife_ is serving no purpose whatsoever," he taunted, arms folded over his small chest. Wrath grimaced; it was a sore subject. "You need to get rid of her," the boy said.

"No. The Führer needs a wife."

"There is already a perfectly functional wife running this household!" Pride declared indignantly. "You found her satisfactory before."

"It's different now. I'm in a younger body. I need a younger and more attractive wife." Wrath could see Pride bristle. It was clear that the senior homunculus did not like to hear his "mother" disrespected. Wrath added with a smirk, "I wouldn't expect you to understand that, since you're only a little boy—"

He had to leap backwards to avoid being skewered by one of Pride's shadow appendages, then was quickly caged in by three others. "You will _watch your tongue_, Wrath," menaced Pride. He liked hearing himself disrespected even less.

Wrath put his hands up in submission. "Sorry, I was just kidding. No offense meant." His face still wore a twisted smile.

Pride continued to glare threateningly at him for several long moments. "You would do well to remember your place," he growled, before slowly withdrawing his appendages.

"Don't worry, I have no intention of challenging you. I'm not stupid," Wrath chuckled. Pride could move nearly as fast as him, was several times as powerful, and had the ability to regenerate. "But if you don't mind, Lust is waiting for our date..."

After a few more moments of menacing glare, Pride moved from the door and let the other homunculus pass. "I'm warning you, Wrath. Your new wife is becoming a distraction. Keep her in line, or I will."


	6. The Circle

Chapter 6: The Circle 

Sheska Hamilton had a talent that not many people knew about. An avid reader and former librarian, she had a photographic memory, and could reproduce in writing any book she had ever read. It was this ability that had originally gotten her a job as a civilian employee of the Amestrian military. But now, in her new position as a receptionist in the Benefits Department, there was little call for her peculiar talent. For the most part, her duties were limited to filing paperwork and opening routine mail.

Today their office had accidently received a memo intended for General Gardner, regarding recruitment efforts in the West City region. There had been several of these accidental mailings lately, intended for different recipients, but always originating from the Führer President's office. Sheska read the memo, then replaced it in the envelope, readdressed it, and put it in the outgoing mailbox.

It was nearly time for lunch. She sighed, wishing sadly that she had someone to eat with. Her job was a lonely one now.

Things had been different in the beginning. She had been hired by Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, a rather eccentric, but kind and enthusiastically friendly man. But only a few months after she started working for him, he had been shot to death in a phone booth near military headquarters, a brutal murder that had stunned everyone who knew him. Months later, Sheska had not still gotten over his death.

If that had not been awful enough, the military had later accused Lieutenant Maria Ross, one of Hughes' subordinates, of the murder. Lieutenant Ross was a soft-spoken woman, also very kind, whom Sheska had respected greatly and did not believe was guilty. She had later also been killed, supposedly while trying to escape from prison.

The man who killed Lieutenant Ross had been a close friend of Hughes, and had also once seemed like a decent man. But he had cruelly burned her to death using alchemy, and showed no remorse afterward. Shortly after that, he had been appointed Führer President, and now walked the halls of Central Command with a cold and imperious air. His former team of subordinates had been split up into different departments, and now avoided one another, kept to themselves, and wore haunted expressions.

Sheska didn't understand how all these events were connected, but she knew that something sinister was happening behind the scenes of the Amestrian military. She also knew not to ask questions, lest she become the next person to end up murdered in a phone booth or executed for a false crime. The thought frightened her every day as she reported to work, kept her awake at night, filled her nightmares when she did sleep.

Nevertheless, when she got home that evening, she sat down and typed out the memo to General Gardner in its entirety from memory, and sealed it in an envelope. Tomorrow morning she would arrive at work a little early and stop by the cafeteria for coffee, sitting in her regular seat; and when she gathered up her things and left, the envelope would remain behind. She had been recruited by Führer President Mustang's former subordinates to use her unique talent for this purpose, to help in the fight against the people who were doing these terrible things. If there was a secret code hidden in the memo, she didn't know it, and didn't want to know. Nor did she know who would come to pick it up. Her job was only to make copies and drop them off.

Sheska was terrified, sure she would be caught, sure she would be killed. But she remembered Lieutenant Colonel Hughes and Lieutenant Ross, how they had been kind and decent people who hadn't deserved to die, and how much she missed them. And despite her fear, she copied memo after memo.

* * *

Warrant Officer Vato Falman stopped by the cafeteria every morning, and also sat in a regular seat. Once in a while, like today, he would find an envelope discreetly left on the chair. He pocketed it quietly for later reading.

All of the members of their team besides Hawkeye had been reassigned after Colonel Mustang (or rather, Wrath) had been promoted to the Führer Presidency. Whoever had made the assignments had gone out of their way to put them into menial positions that had nothing to do with their respective areas of expertise. Falman, for example, was employed as a lowly stock clerk in the Commissary.

They had been scattered into different departments at the far ends of the Central Command complex, so their paths never crossed during the day. They were kept away from positions with access to mail, phones, or radio. Outside of work, their phones were bugged and their homes were watched by military agents who didn't even bother concealing their presence. But they had been ready for that. That night in Fuery's townhouse, the night the Colonel had been taken, the team had brainstormed for hours, doing their best to predict the strategies that Wrath would use to separate them, and to devise countermeasures.

Thus, later in the morning when he had a moment alone, Falman pulled the envelope out of his pocket and carefully read the memo it contained. Once he understood what it said, he replaced it and resealed the envelope.

There were other ways to pass information. People, supplies, and vehicles circulated constantly among the departments of Central Command. Like today, for example, when a box of cotton swabs that no one had ordered, addressed to the Building Maintenance Division, with the envelope sealed inside, made its way from the Commissary onto an outgoing parcel delivery truck.

* * *

Lieutenant Heymans Breda wanted to get on the good side of his new supervisor Captain Whitcomb, head of the Building Maintenance Division, so he made a show of volunteering for the annoying little jobs that no one else wanted to do. This morning, for example, they had received a box of cotton swabs that had obviously been intended for the Infirmary. (That sort of thing happened a lot these days. Captain Whitcomb complained that the Commissary was run by idiots.) As he always did, Breda helpfully took charge of sorting it out.

He only needed to skim the memo quickly to understand its message, since he was the one who had had devised their secret code. Or rather, codes: there were three of them. The whole team had memorized them on the spot, that night in Fuery's townhouse.

Code A was fairly simple, only a little more complex than the codes they had used on the Colonel's team, and probably easy for Wrath to decode. It was a bluff. The homunculus would be expecting Hawkeye to pass some kind of coded messages, so she would use Code A to relate bits of interesting but tactically unhelpful information, just enough to make it clear that they were communicating. If they were very lucky, he would look no further.

More useful information would be passed using Code B, which was several times more complex than Code A, and would be more difficult for Wrath to find and decode. But since he might anticipate that they would use a second code, Code B was also a feint. Hawkeye would use it to pass along only information that Wrath already knew or suspected she had. Hopefully, if the first code didn't satisfy him, the second one would.

Any truly sensitive information would be passed via Code C. This was an unpredictable code, unlike anything they had used with the Colonel. The key was based on a lullaby that Alphonse had taught them that night, one his mother used to sing, which she had described as being very old. It had the advantage of being obscure enough that none of the others had heard of it (hopefully including the Colonel), but simple enough that they could all memorize it quickly. As an extra precaution, Hawkeye would only use it on pages that Wrath hadn't seen, slipped into the memos just before mailing. One advantage of working for the military was that an extra page of redundant jargon could be tacked onto any memo without seeming at all unusual to the recipient.

Through this message system, Hawkeye had previously alerted the team that Selim, the Führer's adopted son, was the homunculus Pride. And she had passed on the Colonel's cryptic message about the nationwide human transmutation circle and the Promised Day. But those were both Code B messages, which meant that Wrath knew she had that information.

Today was the first time that Hawkeye had passed a message using Code C. After discreetly reading the memo, Breda replaced the envelope, resealed and readdressed the box. This time, the cotton swabs would be sent to the Sanitation Division.

* * *

Sergeant Major Kain Fuery was not given to self-pity. But he was sure that his teammates would agree—if he were able to talk to them—that their current situation had been especially hard on him. He had been assigned to the Sanitation Division, where he worked as a janitor. After his first day on the job, he had come home to find his townhouse burglarized and all his radio equipment smashed. And most cruelly of all, now that they had recruited Sheska as a fellow conspirator, he was no longer able to have lunch with her, lest he attract attention to her and put her safety in jeopardy. He sighed at the thought. Before all this happened, he had _almost_ worked up the nerve to ask her to dinner, too.

At the moment, he was supposed to be on his rounds. But the parcel delivery was later than usual this morning, so he busied himself pretending to fix a wheel on his cleaning supply cart, hoping no one would notice him. When the delivery finally arrived, he managed to get to the door and sign for the package before anyone else. He had just opened the box and spirited the envelope into his pocket when his supervisor appeared and gave him a lengthy chewing-out. Fuery was belatedly dispatched to his rounds, and the job of readdressing the errant supplies was given to the department secretary.

The ladies' room of Administrative Building B, blocked with a "Do Not Enter – Cleaning in Progress" sign, provided him with the privacy he needed to read and decode the memo. There were three messages.

In Code A, it read: WRATH CLAIMS TO HAVE ABSORBED, NOT COPIED RM'S SOUL. PROCESS NOT FINISHED. WILL BE PERMANENT SOON. Not good.

In Code B was a more tactical message: BLIND SPOT 120 DEGREES CLOCKWISE FROM RIGHT EYE. That was potentially useful information, even if Wrath knew she had it.

And in Code C, it said: CONTACT MADAM CHRISTMAS. NEED IGNITION GLOVES. That sounded more promising. Hawkeye must have reason to think that the Colonel could still use alchemy to fight back against Wrath. And the homunculus wasn't aware that she had that information. Hopefully she was onto something.

There was nothing here for Fuery to act on; his only job was to move the message on to its next destination. But this would also give him the opportunity to pass on something he had been working on himself. Wrath's agents hadn't quite gotten _all_ of his radio equipment, since he had predicted that they would come, and had hidden some useful pieces away in advance. Now he fished two small, thin components out of his pocket and added them to the envelope, trusting that the memo's recipients would recognize what they were and pass them on.

Fuery returned the memo to his pocket and picked up his mop. He had missed the chance to send it on through parcel delivery, but that was only one method for moving information. After all, there were a lot of buildings in the Central Command complex that needed to be cleaned. Like Administrative Building D, home to the Investigations Department, where later today Sergeant Denny Brosh would find an envelope tucked under the left-hand sink in the men's room. Brosh, the former partner of the late Lieutenant Ross, had legitimate reason to hate the new Führer President, whom he considered a murderer. He also happened to pass by the Motor Pool as he walked home each night, and he was a smoker. Undoubtedly he would pause there and ask someone for a light.

* * *

Lieutenant Jean Havoc had never had much luck with girlfriends, but now it seemed that his fortunes might finally have improved. It was a welcome bright spot amid everything that had happened.

Amanda was a waitress from a café near his apartment, a cute, cheerful young woman with wavy red hair, fair skin, and freckles. They were getting along quite well. Havoc didn't earn much at his new job with the Motor Pool, but he still managed to take her out to dinner once or twice every week after work.

She wanted to be something other than an ordinary waitress someday, she told him. She lamented that she wasn't pretty enough to work in a hostess bar, like her cousin Sabrina did. But Havoc thought she was beautiful, and told her so, which made her blush.

Tonight, as he walked her to her doorstep and leaned in for a chaste goodnight kiss, he slipped a folded envelope into her pocket. As they said goodnight, she mentioned offhandedly that she would be visiting Sabrina this weekend.

Havoc smiled to himself as he walked home alone. He sincerely hoped that he would live through whatever Wrath and the other homunculi were planning. If he did, as soon as it was all over, the first thing he intended to do was ask Amanda out on a _real_ date.

* * *

Hawkeye made a point of going shopping downtown every Wednesday at lunchtime. This was a new habit for her, but her position as First Lady carried many social responsibilities, and her old wardrobe was sadly inadequate to the task. Thus, she found herself shopping for new dresses and accessories on a regular basis. She made the rounds of several different stores, always pretending not to notice the black car with darkened windows that trailed her as she made her way up the street.

Today she walked into a particular dress shop that she had begun to frequent. The employee behind the counter was plainly dressed, with little makeup, her hair tied up in a simple ponytail. But if one looked closely, it was clear that she was a beautiful woman. Fixed up, she could easily have found her way into more lucrative employment—for example, at a hostess bar. Her name tag read VANESSA.

"Anything special you're looking for today, Mrs. Mustang?" asked Vanessa politely as Hawkeye browsed. The store was noticeably brighter than most such shops, its wares arranged against the walls, as if to avoid casting any large shadows. The only other customers in the store, a harried mother and her restless teenage daughter, appeared absorbed in their shopping.

"I was wondering if you've gotten any new accessories in," answered Hawkeye. "Hats, scarves…gloves…"

"I'm not sure when the next shipment will come in," Vanessa said carefully. "But I may know something in a few weeks." She turned and removed a light blue satin evening gown from a clothesrack behind the counter. "In the meantime, I have the latest dress you ordered." Hawkeye never ordered anything; keeping up with the latest fashions had never been her strong suit, and she had no idea what a First Lady was expected to wear. Fortunately, Vanessa had impeccable taste. "And may I recommend some earrings to go with it?" she added, sliding a small jewelry box across the counter. The box contained a pair of large, chunky, thoroughly hideous earrings, in a blue that matched the dress. "These are the very latest style. I think you'll find them quite versatile."

"They're lovely," replied Hawkeye with a straight face. "I look forward to trying them out." She made arrangements to have the gown delivered to the Bradley estate, pocketed the earrings for later inspection, and bid Vanessa goodbye. Then she walked on to her next destination, ignoring the black car as it crept along behind her.

It was her last stop, a sandwich cart where she frequently bought lunch. By strange coincidence, the young woman who worked there was also beautiful, but plainly dressed and wearing little makeup. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Mustang," the girl said with a smile. "You too, Madeline," Hawkeye replied.

A nearby plaza was set back a good distance from the street, and consequently from the black car. It was treeless and unshaded, and with the noontime sun blasting down on the concrete, used by no one. Hawkeye, however, found its lack of shadows quite appealing. She sat down on a bench, unwrapped a corner of her sandwich and took a bite.

As she ate, she discreetly pulled the earrings out of her pocket and set them in her lap. Upon examination, she found that each had a hinge on the back that could be opened. The left earring concealed what appeared to be a tiny radio microphone and transmitter, and the right held a miniature receiver and earphone. Hawkeye smiled; the components were definitely Fuery's handiwork. They would be extremely useful for listening in on Wrath and Pride.

She repocketed the earrings and unwrapped the rest of her sandwich, smoothing the paper over her lap to catch any crumbs. Folded inside the wrapper she found a flyer advertising lunch specials for the coming week. Hidden within the words, in Code C, was a message: WORKING ON THE GLOVES. GOING TO TAKE SOME TIME. HANG IN THERE, KIDDO. –MC

For just a moment, Hawkeye felt a lump in her throat. However awful things became, she wasn't alone. Tucked away in the corners of Central Command, and spread throughout the city, her teammates, allies and friends were watching, and doing everything in their power to help with the fight. And as she finished her sandwich and stood up, reluctantly preparing to head back to work and the bizarre hell of her home life, with the man she loved trapped inside a monster and all their futures hanging on the brink, that one fact made all the difference.


	7. Grudge Match

Chapter 7: Grudge Match

For Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, the worst part was that he had finally decided Roy Mustang wasn't a terrible human being after all.

Previously, he had gone back and forth on this point. Edward had never really liked the Colonel, but after the events surrounding Lieutenant Maria Ross, he had briefly decided that his commanding officer was truly evil. Ross had been accused of killing Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, Mustang's best friend. It was obvious that she wasn't guilty, and that someone had set her up; but when she had later escaped from prison, Mustang had—to all appearances—used his flame alchemy to burn her to death, right on the street. Edward had decided at that moment that the man was truly worthy of hatred.

But Maria Ross was still alive. Mustang had known she was innocent, and had staged both her jailbreak and death to keep her from being executed. He had also arranged to smuggle her out of the country into Xing, all of which Edward had learned when he was sent to help escort her. He had returned from that mission with a much higher opinion of the Colonel.

Only to learn that while he was gone, Mustang had been turned into something very evil, after all.

"So now he's working for the same people who killed Hughes, and set up Lieutenant Ross!" Edward was shouting to Alphonse. "How could he just turn like that? It's not right!"

They were in their hotel room in Central City. While Edward paced and ranted, Alphonse sat on the floor, his metal body surrounded by a pile of alchemy books surreptitiously borrowed from the State Library after hours. Atop one pile sat a memo from the Führer President's office to General Gardner.

"It's not his fault, Brother," Alphonse objected. "It's not really the Colonel who's doing these things. They turned him into a homunculus against his will. It's like he's possessed."

Edward understood that perfectly well. But he also had a temper, and right now he was very upset.

"_And_ you let Winry get involved in this—"

"I'm right here, you know," protested Winry. She was sitting on the couch, listening to the proceedings with a frown. "It was my decision to help, Ed. All I'm doing is visiting Mrs. Hughes, and she gives me envelopes that Sheska leaves behind when she visits. None of us even knows what they say, except Al."

"It's still dangerous," Edward seethed.

"And it's still my choice." She was glowering at him in a familiar way that said: _Back off from this argument if you know what's good for you._

Edward grabbed his red coat and stomped toward the door. "Fine. You make your choice, I'm going to make mine."

"Where are you going?" demanded Alphonse, concern in his metallic voice.

"To see Colonel Bastard, and make him tell me what the hell is going on."

"Brother, be careful—" Alphonse called, as Edward slammed the door behind him. He wanted someone to blame. Even more, he wanted someone to punch. The Colonel—or whoever he was now—would make a convenient target.

* * *

"You can't see the Führer President without an appointment," Lieutenant Hawkeye informed him patiently from behind her desk. "I can try to schedule you, but I don't recommend it. It would be safer if you stayed out of his way."

"This is crazy!" Edward spat. He had heard about Hawkeye, but the sight shocked him nonetheless. She was wearing a dress uniform, with a skirt and high-heeled shoes. She also wore a wedding ring on her left hand, and the nameplate on her desk read LIEUTENANT RIZA MUSTANG. To Edward's eyes, she might as well have been wearing a prison uniform and shackles. How dare that lecherous bastard—! On top of the fury and betrayal he was already feeling, he was now gripped with determination to rescue Hawkeye from Mustang's clutches.

"He's in there now, isn't he?" Edward asked, gesturing at the closed door behind her, which led to the Führer's inner office. "Never mind the appointment. I'll show myself in." He began to stride past her desk.

Now she was standing. "Edward—just wait for a second!" she said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He turned back to face her, and found himself sucker-punched in the stomach, hard. He staggered in pain. "Ow, that hurt! Lieutenant, what was that for? I'm trying to help you!"

"And I'm trying to stop you from getting yourself killed," she said tersely, keeping her voice low.

But behind him, Edward heard the sound of the inner office door slamming open. "_Fullmetal._" The voice was unmistakable. "If you're here to see me, then get in here. Either way, quit harassing the Lieutenant."

"How am I the one harassing—" muttered Edward, but he trailed off as he straightened and faced the new Führer. He looked like the same man, only wearing a dress uniform, complete with sword, and an eyepatch. His visible eye held the same mocking, amused gleam as always. "Are you really evil now?" Edward baited him angrily. "Because I'm not seeing much difference."

The figure laughed. "We'll discuss it in private."

Still standing next to him, Hawkeye whispered, "He's in a good mood, but don't push it. Good luck." She returned to her desk without sparing the Führer a glance, her face nearly expressionless, except for a few worried creases on her forehead.

After closing the office door behind them, Mustang sat in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk. He didn't invite Edward to sit, so the young alchemist remained awkwardly standing. "What the hell happened to you, Colonel Bastard?" he demanded.

"It's Führer Bastard now," he chuckled. "And you obviously know what happened, or you wouldn't have barged in here all upset."

Edward slammed his hands on the desk and leaned forward, glaring directly into Mustang's visible eye. "If you're with them now—those people, or whatever they are, who killed Hughes—then you're my enemy, and you're not walking out of here."

The older man's eyebrows shot up, his eye glittering with amusement. "You're challenging me? Do you remember what happened the last time you tried that?" He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if sorting through the recollection. "_Both_ times, in fact. You got your ass kicked by Bradley at the State Alchemist exam, and by Mustang at the exhibition fight—"

"_The exhibition fight was a tie!"_ Edward snarled. As Mustang laughed incredulously, Edward clapped his hands, transmuted a staff out of the floor, and lunged at him.

There was a blur, and suddenly the staff was falling out of his hands, chopped into pieces by a sword that moved too quickly for him to see. He recovered quickly in mid-lunge, switching up to punch Mustang with his automail fist instead, but as he landed the blow amid another blur, there was nothing but air where the figure had been sitting. Then Edward felt himself being grabbed from behind by the collar, and was forcefully thrown into a wall.

Edward shook off the effects of the blow and jumped back to his feet, furious. Mustang stood unruffled with his arms crossed, smirking, the sword undisturbed in its scabbard. Edward clapped again, this time extending the top of his automail arm into a blade, and lunged again. Another blur, and he found himself lying on his back on the floor. Something landed on his stomach: it was the blade, severed from his automail.

Mustang stood above him, still smirking. "You've got some impressive anger control issues, shrimp. It's a shame you aren't more ambitious. You would make a good Wrath someday."

The young alchemist leapt up again, gritting his teeth. The bastard was playing with him! And he was letting himself be drawn in, letting his temper get in the way of strategy. _Think_. What did Master Izumi used to say? If your opponent is faster than you, use their speed against them. More speed means less control. OK.

For now, Edward deliberately continued his ineffective flailing attacks, alternating transmutations with hand-to-hand moves, watching Mustang dodge every one with that insufferable smile, absorbing his counter-blows. He and Mustang had only fought each other once, and much of that fight had been obscured by smoke and dust, so the older man didn't know much about his fighting style. Let him keep thinking he had the upper hand, that he could predict all of Edward's movements. Track the blur, watch how he moves. Lure him in one more time, then at the last split second…Edward abruptly leapt and rebounded off the wall, clapped, and sent stone columns from three different directions to slam into the blur as it landed. Ha, he'd gotten him!

With another blur of motion, Mustang leapt backwards across the room; when he stopped moving, he was noticeably bruised and bloodied. "Not bad, Edward," he said, in a voice that was suddenly reminiscent of Bradley. "You were holding back before. But that trick isn't going to work twice." He was still smiling pleasantly, but Edward could see that he was genuinely angry. "You're starting to irritate me," he added. "And by the way, I've been holding back too." He pulled off his eyepatch, revealing the ouroboros.

"You look even stupider than before," Edward snarled. "Bring it, bitch!"

"Since you and your brother are both confirmed human sacrifices, you're too important for me to kill," Mustang continued patiently. "But I wonder how you'd like a second automail arm? Or perhaps," his cold smile widened, "an eyepatch."

"Human what—" But it was too late. In one moment Mustang was standing across the room; in the next, Edward found himself slammed against the wall behind him, the Führer's arm pinning his neck, the tip of his sword not an inch from the younger man's left eye. Edward's breath caught in his throat.

But something had happened to him. Now Mustang was standing still, as if frozen in place. And he had two normal eyes. "Fullmetal—" he said through clenched teeth, "—get out of here. I can't control this." He was breathing rapidly, his muscles shaking, as if he were struggling against some unseen physical force.

"Colonel!" Edward said, genuinely shocked, sliding sideways against the wall until he was out from under the sword. "It's really you? You're really still in there?"

"_Get out of here." _With effort, Mustang managed to lower the sword and take a few slow steps backward.

"No way!" exclaimed Edward. "If you're still in there, then I'll do you a favor and pound that goddamned homunculus out of your head!" He clapped his hands, quickly drew a staff from the wall behind him, and lunged in attack at the older man's still figure.

In the split second before he landed the blow, he saw the ouroboros snap back into place in Mustang's right eye. In the next instant, Edward felt himself hurled backwards, the staff thrown in the opposite direction. He crashed painfully against the wall and slid to the floor, momentarily stunned, but quickly jumped back to his feet.

"Congratulations," the homunculus said, arms folded, giving Edward a humorless smirk. "It seems you're under Mustang's protection. So it looks like what's left of your body will remain intact, for the moment." Behind the smile, Edward could see, he was seething with rage. "But that doesn't mean I have to put up with your irritating company."

The last thing Edward saw was a blur, which might have been a fist, aimed at his jaw. Then everything went black.

* * *

When he came to, Edward found himself back in their hotel room, lying on the couch. He sat up abruptly, then gasped in pain at the pounding in his head and jaw.

"Ed, don't try to sit up so fast!" said Winry, hovering over him.

"Are you all right, Brother?" asked Alphonse beside her, his expressionless armored face somehow managing to convey worry. "You've been knocked out for awhile. Lieutenant Hawkeye had you brought back here."

Edward nodded, and spoke with difficulty. "It's—not him," he mumbled, rubbing his sore jaw. "Whoever's controlling him. The real Mustang is still in there. He's not really evil."

Alphonse sighed metallically. "That's what we tried to tell you, Brother."

Edward shook off the last of his daze, swung his feet to the side of the couch, and stood up. "We can't just leave him like that! Al, we've got to do something." Alphonse nodded. "All right," Edward continued. "I'm listening now. Tell me everything you've learned so far. We're going to figure out how to fix this."


	8. The Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter 8: The Enemy of My Enemy

The Elric brothers lay sprawled out on the floor of their hotel room, surrounded by alchemy books. Now that Edward was back in town, they had full access to the library again; but it was no help. It held literally no books devoted to homunculi or human transmutation, and there were so few references to them in any other books that it was clear those subjects had been deliberately scrubbed from the shelves. The local alchemy bookstores were in a similar state. Whoever had created the homunculi was determined to keep the information for themselves, and had enough power to make it happen. Edward sighed and tossed aside the latest book in the stack he had been reading. Alphonse, engrossed in his own text, didn't look up.

Lying on his back, Edward threw his arm over his eyes. They still knew very little about what Wrath was actually doing to Mustang, except for what they had read in Hawkeye's message. That the homunculus was in the process of absorbing Mustang's soul. That the process was incomplete, but would be permanent soon. Edward took the warning seriously. In nature, once two things were completely combined, it was virtually impossible to separate them. After all, you couldn't unstir cream from a cup of coffee, or unscramble the yolk from an egg. It was the same with alchemy. Once you combined two living creatures into one—a chimera—there was no known way to split them back up into the original beings.

As often happened between them, Alphonse was thinking along the same lines. "Brother, the Colonel is just another type of chimera, isn't he?" he asked, laying down his book. "Or he will be, once the process is complete. But instead of a human who's combined with an animal, he's combined with a homunculus."

"Yeah, I think so too," agreed Edward, sitting up. "So we know what that means. We have to get rid of Wrath _before_ he finishes merging with the Colonel. Because once it happens, there's no going back." Alphonse nodded gravely.

There was no need to mention Nina. The little girl whose father, Shou Tucker, had been such a monster that he had turned his own daughter into a chimera, merging her with the family dog in a desperate attempt to keep his State Alchemy license. Edward clutched his stomach involuntarily at the memory, the horror of it still fresh. Just before it happened, they had stayed at Tucker's house for a few days—studied from his alchemy books, eaten dinner with the family, played with Nina during breaks from their research—never dreaming that he was capable of such evil. After they had learned what he'd done, they swore they would do whatever it took to save Nina, even though they knew it was probably impossible. But they had never even gotten the chance to try. Shortly thereafter, both Tucker and Nina had been murdered by a serial killer, an Ishvalan man named Scar who hated State Alchemists, and had regarded killing Nina as an act of mercy. The brothers had never gotten over what had happened to her.

"This time...we definitely have to stop it," said Alphonse, staring determinedly into the air.

"Agreed," said Edward grimly. "Definitely." But how? He punched the air in frustration. "We need a better idea of what we're doing, Al. We don't even know what these homunculi are. All we know is that they have something to do with Philosopher's Stones."

"If we could get a closer look at one of them..." Alphonse said thoughtfully.

"You mean, like, capture one of them?" Edward mused. He snapped his fingers and jumped up, suddenly energized. "That's it!"

"What are you thinking, Brother?"

"Wrath said that we were 'confirmed human sacrifices,' and 'too important to kill.' It sounds like they need to keep us alive, or it'll create a major headache for them. So…what if we were attacked by Scar?"

"Then they might appear, and stop him," Alphonse finished the thought. "We could lay a trap. But it'll be tough to capture a homunculus. We'll need a good plan." Edward nodded. "And what if we're wrong, and they don't show at all?" Alphonse continued. They had fought the Ishvalan once before, and he had nearly killed both of them.

"Then we'll have to fight Scar on our own, I guess. But it's better than no plan at all." Edward was staring determinedly, a plan beginning to grow in his mind. "And either way, I want another crack at him. We owe that bastard for Nina."

Alphonse nodded. "OK. Now we just have to figure out how to get his attention."

Edward grinned. "I have some ideas about that."

* * *

It was Wednesday, and Hawkeye was making her usual lunchtime rounds. She was just about to push her way through the door of Vanessa's dress shop when out of the corner of her eye, a metallic glint drew her attention. Down the block, Edward and Alphonse Elric—the noonday sun briefly reflecting off the latter's armor—were disappearing around a corner.

Pretending not to have noticed anything unusual, she continued into the shop. There were no other customers. "Vanessa," Hawkeye asked in an urgent tone, "is there a back way out? Hopefully near the dressing room?" With a glance through the front window at the ever-present black car, Vanessa nodded; then gathered up an armload of dresses for Hawkeye to "try on," a bit of theater for Wrath's agents. "Follow me," she said.

Half a minute later, Hawkeye was running through the alley as quickly as she could, inwardly cursing Wrath for making her wear a dress uniform skirt. (At least it wasn't a miniskirt! She probably had Bradley's old-fashioned nature to thank for that kindness.) She emerged at the end of the block, just in time to intercept the brothers. "Lieutenant Hawkeye!" Alphonse exclaimed, surprised. "What are you doing here?" asked Edward.

"Shopping," she replied, a little out of breath from running. Down the block, she spotted a soldier waiting in line for coffee at a kiosk. He had dark hair and spectacles that reminded her of Fuery, but it was no one she knew; he was merely a private, judging by the uniform hat. Nevertheless, she stepped back into the alley to avoid being seen. "I don't have long. Wrath has people watching. What are you two doing here? I've been hearing some strange reports."

Edward broke into a grin. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood alchemist, here to serve the people!"

She folded her arms suspiciously. "Exactly. You've been running around in public places, putting on a big show of performing alchemy for anyone who asks. Like you're trying to attract attention. Have you forgotten that Scar is still out there?"

Alphonse put a hand behind his head sheepishly. "That's the whole point," answered Edward, still grinning. "We're trying to lure Scar out. If he hears about a flashy State Alchemist, we figure he'll come running. And if he attacks us, we're betting the homunculi will show up. Wrath says we're important human sacrifices or something, so they need to keep us alive." He slammed a fist into his automail palm. "Then when they get here, we're going to capture one."

Hawkeye stared at them, momentarily speechless. "Are you out of your _minds_?" she asked finally. "Every part of that plan is insane!" She was shaking her head in disbelief, remembering how Scar had nearly killed both boys, and the Colonel as well, during their first encounter. "There's no need for the two of you to be that reckless."

"Do you know how to save the Colonel, Lieutenant?" Edward demanded, suddenly serious, fire in his eyes. "Because I don't. Al and I know more about homunculi and human transmutation than just about anyone, and we don't have the first clue. If we're going to learn anything, we need to catch a homunculus."

"We don't want anyone else to get hurt!" added Alphonse with equal vehemence. "Too many of our friends have suffered already, and we haven't been able to do anything. Ed and I have made up our minds to go forward, even we have to use ourselves as bait."

Hawkeye bit her lip uncertainly. They were correct. Even if she spied on Wrath from now until the Promised Day, it was doubtful that she would ever collect enough intelligence to save the Colonel on her own. Never mind the homunculi's larger plan, whatever the nationwide human transmutation circle was for. These weren't military matters; this was alchemy, and she needed the alchemists' help badly. But they were so young, and to go this far…

"We're stronger than we were the first time we fought Scar," Edward insisted, still determined. "And now we know how he fights. We can handle ourselves, Lieutenant."

She surveyed the brothers for another long moment, then finally sighed in defeat. It wasn't as if she could stop them, anyway. "All right," she said. "I can see that your minds are made up. But have you really thought this through? Do you really think just the two of you can capture a homunculus?"

"We have a plan for trapping one, and some people to help us do it," Edward declared smugly.

"OK," she continued. "Even if you manage to catch one, where are you going to take it? How are you going to transport it?"

There was a pause. "We're going to have to improvise that part," Alphonse mumbled.

Hawkeye pressed a palm to her forehead. "You two really are going to get yourselves killed," she sighed. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the private had finished buying his coffee and was disappearing around the corner. She stared thoughtfully after him. Involving herself, especially on the spur of the moment, would be risky, but she felt that she had little choice. "I think I can help. Give me five minutes." The brothers nodded, and she melted back into the alley.

Five minutes later, she reappeared wearing a military hat and glasses that looked suspiciously like the ones the private had been wearing, and carrying a gun. "Don't ask," she said with a sharp look at the brothers, who held their tongues.

She eyed the cars that made up the street's slow-moving traffic, picked out a white convertible, and brazenly stepped in front of it with her gun drawn, causing it to screech to a halt. "I'm from the military. I'm confiscating your car," she said coolly. The vehicle's indignant occupants, a well-dressed man and woman, responded with protests. "Sorry, I don't have time to argue," added Hawkeye as she opened the driver's door, grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him out of the car into the road. "Get out before I arrest both of you," she ordered the female passenger, who did as she was told. "Now start walking. Go get yourself a cab. Don't speak of this to anyone." The couple nervously complied.

Hawkeye pulled the car into the alley, twisted the keys out of the ignition and got out. "I should have asked this first, but do either of you know how to drive?"

"Sure. I learned how in Resembool," Edward responded. He sounded less confident than Hawkeye would have liked, but it would have to do. She tossed him the keys.

"OK," she continued. "We have a safehouse in the suburbs for emergencies, an empty one that Breda found. Wrath doesn't know about it. Alphonse, we talked about it that night at Fuery's townhouse—did you memorize the address?" The younger brother nodded. She pulled a piece of paper and pen from her pocket, and quickly scrawled down a phone number. "If anyone gets hurt, this is the contact number for Dr. Knox. He helped us cover up the Maria Ross business. He won't be happy, but he'll probably help again." She handed Alphonse the piece of paper. "This is all I can do. The rest is up to you two."

"Thank you, Lieutenant!" said Alphonse. "Yeah, this will help a lot," Edward conceded.

Now Hawkeye had a gun, the first one she'd held in weeks. The feel of it in her hand was familiar, comforting, strong. But it was too risky to keep. Wrath's eye would surely pick out its silhouette in her pocket. And even if he didn't…she had a mental flash of herself using it on the Colonel to fulfill his order, and recoiled from the thought. No. She would take her chances with the dagger.

"Take this too. Good luck to you both." She thrust the gun into a startled Edward's hands.

"Lieutenant, we can't use this—it's a tool for killing!" Alphonse exclaimed.

"It's a tool for protection," she corrected. "It might save your life." Ignoring the brothers' expressions of shock, she began to walk away.

At the opposite end of the street, a figure appeared. A tall man, shrouded in a light-colored cloak and hood, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. Hawkeye felt a chill run through her; it was unmistakably Scar. He had found the boys already.

"Can you do one more thing for us, Lieutenant?" Edward called after her. "Can you help keep the military away from here?"

Vanessa could get word to Madam Christmas; her people would have access to military radio, and maybe they could create enough confusion to divert troops elsewhere. "I'll see what I can do," she called back. "Now please don't die!"

Edward gave her a quick nod as he pocketed the gun, then turned back to face Scar, as both brothers assumed a fighting stance. It was time for her to go. She slipped into the alley, discarded the hat and glasses, and sprinted back to the dress shop, hoping to get back before Wrath's agents became suspicious. There was nothing more she could do for the boys now, except to worry.


	9. Melee

Chapter 9: Melee

Wrath was returning to his office from a meeting with his senior generals when word came in: Scar had been sighted in downtown Central City. This was significant news. The Ishvalan assassin had a bothersome habit of killing Father's potential human sacrifices, and had caused other trouble for the homunculi. He had also proven frustratingly elusive. His reappearance provided the opportunity to dispose of him once for all.

Bradley had never clashed with Scar, but Mustang had. Granted, he had been a mere State Alchemist then, and on that particular day, his flame alchemy had been rendered useless by the rain. But he had been careless and overconfident, and it had very nearly killed him. That memory was enough to make Wrath more cautious than usual about confronting the Ishvalan, and led him to take the rare step of asking Father to send a second homunculus as backup.

He'd been hoping for Lust, or at least Pride; he hadn't expected Gluttony, the neediest and most annoying of his fellow homunculi. The rotund, simple-minded creature, who perpetually drooled and complained of hunger, had probably only been sent because no one else wanted to babysit him. Wrath made a mental note to be more specific with his backup requests in the future.

They were on a largely deserted industrial block, a few blocks from Central City's busy commercial heart, near where Scar had last been sighted. Gluttony had scrambled up to the low rooftop of the nearest building, and was galloping ahead of Wrath as he walked down the street. "I can smell him! The Ishvalan that I didn't get to eat before!" the childlike homunculus was burbling to himself. Wrath sighed.

Then out of nowhere, a shout came from above. Two people dropped onto the rooftop into Gluttony's path; Xingese, from the looks of them. A young man, expensively dressed—some kind of nobleman, at least. And a smaller man, probably a bodyguard, dressed in a baggy black hooded robe, his face covered by a grotesque wooden mask. In one motion, the smaller man landed lightly on one foot, pivoted, and kicked Gluttony in the face so hard that the homunculus went sailing through the air.

This was Wrath's first time seeing the fabled martial arts of Xing in action. The stories of their skills were evidently not exaggerated. Could these be the Elric brothers' Xingese friends? Mustang had met one of them, an old man named Fu, through Alphonse when he had arranged to smuggle Maria Ross out of the country. He didn't recognize these two, but it had to be more than coincidence.

As Gluttony recovered from the blow, the assailants took up positions above him, the nobleman on a higher rooftop, the bodyguard balancing on a utility pole. "Hi! How's it going?" the nobleman said cheerfully. "That's a pretty unusual body you've got there. Just how many people are inside of you?"

"It's no use trying to escape," added the bodyguard. The voice was higher than Wrath expected, perhaps that of an adolescent boy. "You have a distinct presence. I can follow you anywhere."

So they could somehow sense the presence of the Philosopher's Stone and the many human souls that fueled it. But they had not noticed Wrath, still on the ground about half a block away. Unlike the other homunculi, he had only one soul (at least when his host wasn't misbehaving), and was probably indistinguishable from a normal human. Good; it gave him the element of surprise. He ran up the side of the building and leapt onto the roof. "Human, this does not concern you. Leave!" the startled bodyguard shouted. But he was already charging up the pole, his sword extended. "Run, Lan Fan!" the nobleman screamed. Far too late for a warning.

His blow should have cut the bodyguard's head in two, but the small man moved more quickly than expected and parried the blow expertly with his kunai. All Wrath managed to hit was his wooden mask, which cracked in two and went flying—to reveal that "he" was actually a young woman, and a rather attractive one at that, which distracted Wrath so thoroughly that he failed to land a single additional blow.

He landed on the building ledge, chuckling, as she alighted on the opposite site of the roof. "You're good," he said admiringly. "Any chance you'd come work for me? I could always use another beautiful bodyguard. I don't think my current one has my best interests at heart."

"Don't flirt with my guard!" the nobleman interjected indignantly.

"Young Master, let me handle this," said the young woman, casting a protective glance toward him. Wrath's gaze swept from one to the other, and he hid a smile. Never mind; that girl was never going to leave her employer, or vice versa. He recognized that look.

On the building ledge beside him, Gluttony was bouncing up and down with impatience. "Can I eat her?"

Wrath sighed. It would be a terrible waste. "Yes, but do it quickly," he replied.

Gluttony pounced. To Wrath, with his unnatural vision and speed, the attack might as well have been in slow motion, and he saw immediately that it would fail. The girl simply moved too quickly. Long before Gluttony reached her original position, she had already leapt into the air to meet him, her kunai aiming for his eye.

Enough of this. Using Gluttony's attack as a diversion, Wrath leapt in to strike at her from the side. Incredibly, even faced with a second attack—and at Wrath's speed—she managed to twist in the air and nearly deflect his blow. He didn't hit any of her vital points, but landed a clean blow that sliced deeply into her left arm at the shoulder. She cried out in pain.

As Wrath landed smoothly on his feet, and Gluttony made an ungracious landing on his face, the girl went tumbling through the air and crashed to the ground. The nobleman jumped to her side, brandishing a sword. "Lan Fan—stay with me!" he cried. She was only semi-conscious. "We have to go now!" He lifted up the bodyguard's limp form, draping her over his shoulder, preparing to leap away.

"Do you really think you can escape from me that easily?" asked Wrath with a smirk, brandishing his own sword.

"Of course not!" The Xingese man was smiling cheerfully, attempting to conceal his fear. "But you never know until you try."

Wrath charged, but the nobleman was nearly as fast as his bodyguard, and very well-trained at swordfighting. Even burdened with the wounded girl, he was able to deflect all of Wrath's blows—incredible.

"I see you're no stranger to fighting," said Wrath, noting that the man kept swinging around to the right, instinctively seeking his blind spot. "I'm impressed by your skill. I should hire some of your people to train my military." The man's response was in Xingese, but sounded distinctly profane.

Oh well, enough amusement. "Gluttony!" Wrath barked.

"Right!" the homunculus responded. While Wrath kept the nobleman's attention occupied with further sword blows, Gluttony leapt, his hands balled together into a fist, and hit the target with all his strength. It was more effective than any of them were expecting. The Xingese man, still clutching his bodyguard to his shoulder, went flying off the building roof, all the way across the street, and through an upper-story window of an adjacent building.

Wrath sighed again. Why couldn't Father have sent Lust? "Come on," he grumbled, and leapt after them. He landed gracefully just inside the broken window, the interior obscured by a cloud of plaster dust from the previous impact. A moment later, Gluttony landed with a thud on the outside ledge.

Never one to waste a dramatic entrance, Wrath stepped through the dust cloud just as it parted, startling his quarry. "Now then," he said smoothly, "no one will see us in here. How about answering some questions? Who are you people, and how do you know what's inside Gluttony?" The man's eyes were darting around the room frantically, assessing potential exits. "Are you still looking for a way to escape?" taunted Wrath. "You know, you could probably get away on your own if you abandoned the girl. She's nothing but excess baggage to you now." He smirked. "Don't worry, I'll look after her. Personally."

"Excess baggage! Is that how you view your own subordinates?" The man was furious. Wrath said nothing, only maintaining a thin smile. "You're the ruler here, aren't you? This country's king?" the man continued angrily. "A king's job is to protect his people!"

_I believed that once_, thought Wrath, and felt a sudden, inexplicable stab of loss. No—that was Mustang's memory. Irritated, he shoved the thought away.

But the nobleman had seen his hesitation. "If you throw your people away when they become inconvenient, you will never be a true king!" he spat.

Wrath laughed. "You're a naïve fool. There are no true kings in this world!"

There was a sudden movement from the girl. In the next moment, the room exploded into a painfully bright burst of light, forcing Wrath to shield his uncovered eye. A flashbomb. Distracting him with philosophy and then disabling his vision—clever.

"You rely too heavily on your eyesight!" Wrath heard the Xingese man's voice mock him as it receded.

The voice had receded in the direction of the breeze blowing in through the broken window. In that direction, based on the man's previously observed speed…Wrath took his best guess and threw his sword. It clanged as it lodged in a wall, and he heard a gasp.

By now the flash had faded, and Wrath had torn off his eyepatch. He saw that he had not hit the nobleman, but had blocked his way. His aim must have looked much more skillful than it was; the man had stopped cold.

"Nice try," Wrath mocked. "But your flashbomb didn't succeed in blinding this eye."

The nobleman was gaping in horror at the ouroboros in Wrath's right eye. But now there was another quick movement from the girl on his shoulder, followed by a huge blast of smoke. Dimly through the haze, Wrath saw the man's silhouette leaping for the broken window. He leapt after them, then had to backtrack abruptly as the girl threw another object directly at him. A grenade. As the room exploded, Wrath barely made it to the shelter of the adjacent hallway, yanking Gluttony after him to block some of the blast.

While the dust settled and Gluttony regenerated, Wrath watched through the broken window as his quarry ran down the street. Well, it wasn't like they could outrun him. "A flashbomb, a smoke bomb, and a hand grenade. These kids are out of their minds," he muttered, smiling in spite of himself. He hadn't had this much fun in years. "Can you follow them by scent?" he asked Gluttony, who nodded. "Go around from the east and follow them. Don't come out onto the main street. Corner them into the dead end up ahead."

While Gluttony lumbered after them over the rooftop, Wrath replaced his eyepatch, then straightened and brushed off his uniform coat. And they still had to take care of Scar after this, he reminded himself as he leapt back down to ground level. It was lucky that he had just acquired a younger body. He wasn't sure the old one would have been able to keep up.

He caught up to Gluttony quickly, and they resumed their pursuit. But as they turned a corner, from the next block came a deafening crash and a brilliant blast of light. It was unmistakably alchemical in nature, and extremely powerful. "That must be Scar," he said to Gluttony. "You go after him. I'll finish things here."

It wasn't difficult for Wrath to tell which way the Xingese assailants had gone; the girl's arm was so badly injured that she had left a trail of blood. It led to the end of the street, but they had doubled back at the dead end. From there the trail became more erratic, weaving back and forth through several alleys, even looping behind garbage cans. Something wasn't right. But he only realized what it was when he turned a corner, reached the end of the blood trail, and found himself facing…a dog. With a severed arm, clad in a black sleeve, strapped to its back. The girl had cut off her own arm and used it as a decoy.

"Nicely played," he said aloud to no one, with a grim smile. How badly he had underestimated them—and especially her. He sighed wistfully; if only she had taken him up on his job offer.

He disposed of the arm in a garbage can (no sense in alarming the citizenry), then hurried to the next block to catch up with Gluttony. But the noises of battle had already stopped. Surely the simple-minded homunculus hadn't managed to subdue Scar on his own…?

Wrath rounded the corner of the street and stopped cold. The street was deserted, but evidence of a fierce alchemical battle was everywhere: the pavement and walls were torn up, a water tower shattered, and on every disrupted surface were the telltale patterns of transmutation. There were shapes transmuted into the debris too, rectangular pillars and even huge sculpted hands, which he recognized as the style of the Elric brothers. _Fullmetal, _he growled to himself. What was that boy up to? Who had won the battle? And most importantly, where was Gluttony?


	10. Divide and Conquer

Chapter 10: Divide and Conquer

There was no good reason for Wrath to feel cheerful tonight. He had failed his latest mission utterly; not only had Scar escaped, but Gluttony had actually been captured. And by no less than the Elric brothers, who were also his responsibility to keep under control. It was doubtful that even alchemists of their caliber would be able to keep Gluttony restrained for long, and there was a significant risk that the homunculus would eat them, at the unacceptable cost of two confirmed human sacrifices. If the mess wasn't cleaned up quickly, Father would be displeased, and there would be repercussions. Yet Wrath found himself strangely smiling. In a long life that had been meticulously mapped out for him, in which every step had proceeded according to plan, he was finally facing a true, unpredictable challenge, and he was enjoying it thoroughly. Was it Mustang's influence? No, he admitted to himself; he had been bored for a long time, even in Bradley's body.

At any rate, there was work to do. One did not manage to rule a country for two decades without considerable investigative resources, and he had dispatched every agent at his disposal to scour the hidden cracks of the city and its suburbs. It was eventually learned that Gluttony was being held in an abandoned house near the outskirts of town, and that his captors included the two Xingese assailants as well as the Elric brothers. After enduring a lecture from Pride for losing control of the situation, he sent Envy to sort things out.

As he waited for news, one fact intruded on his good mood. The battle had taken place near the main commercial strip, around noon, and it was Wednesday—the same time and place that Riza would have been running her weekly errands. Had she helped the Elric brothers lay their trap? It would have been uncharacteristically sloppy of her to be so obvious, but the coincidence was too great to ignore. Her continued disobedience was one unpredictable facet of his life that he didn't appreciate; he did like to keep things tidy in his own household.

He questioned her, irritably and at length, but she denied any involvement. She had been shopping for dresses, she insisted, and when she had heard sounds of battle nearby, she had immediately left the area and returned to her post at the office. The agents tasked with following her had seen nothing to contradict her version of events; but since she had an accomplished history of surveillance and covert operations, that hardly constituted proof.

Frustratingly, despite his supernatural vision, Wrath could not discern whether she was telling the truth. Humans showed physical signs of deceit that were easy to see: increased respiration, rapid heartbeat, faster bloodflow. But they had those same reactions when they felt strong emotions such as fear, anger, and sorrow. And Riza experienced those emotions virtually every time they were together, making it impossible for him to tell when she was lying. He finally let her go, with a stern reminder that there would be consequences if she crossed him.

No word came from Envy for the next several hours, for so long that Wrath began to wonder, improbably, if the Elrics had managed to capture him too. It was morning before Pride appeared and informed him of the night's unexpected resolution: Gluttony and Alphonse Elric had walked together into Father's chamber, where Gluttony had promptly belched up Edward Elric, the Xingese nobleman, and Envy. "The Elrics are being brought to you. Deal with them," Pride snapped. "I'll brief you on the other developments later." Wrath, bleary-eyed over a cup of coffee after being up all night, merely nodded, rubbed his temples, and didn't even bother asking for an explanation.

* * *

Half an hour later, Edward Elric's state-issued silver pocketwatch came flying at Wrath across the table in his office. The young alchemist was glaring, his hands balled into fists. "I quit being a State Alchemist," he declared angrily.

Wrath sighed and picked up the watch; it was crusted with dried blood, a consequence of having spent time in Gluttony's stomach. The brothers were starting to piece together the clues about the Promised Day, and while they didn't entirely understand their future role as human sacrifices, they knew enough to want nothing further to do with the military. This was inconvenient.

The homunculus twirled the pocketwatch absently, a smirk playing over his lips. "You're certainly free to go," he told them pleasantly. "You can walk away from the military now, and we won't trouble you any further. But I have a feeling you'll choose to stay." The next part would be distasteful, but he had few other options. "What was her name, that friend of yours? It was Winry, wasn't it? My people have been keeping a close eye on her. A nice, honest girl…it would be a shame if something were to happen to her."

Edward's face went white, his eyes wide—that had definitely hit a nerve. For a long moment he stood silently, utterly stricken. Wrath half expected him to come flying across the table personally; but instead, he only slammed his hands on its surface and stared at the homunculus, absolute murder in his eyes. "_Don't…don't you lay a hand her_," Edward growled. "_And none of the people around her, either. Or it won't matter who's trapped inside of you._" Wrath's eyebrows shot up. Despite having witnessed three years of temper tantrums from his alchemist subordinate, he had never seen the boy so consumed with actual rage. He really would have made a good Wrath.

"So what will it be?" he asked casually, sliding the pocketwatch back to Edward's side of the table. "Do you still intend to quit?" After several more long, tense moments, the boy slowly reached down, picked up the watch, and put it in his pocket. "Very good," Wrath answered. "Now that you understand your position, I believe our business here is finished."

Alphonse had remained almost silent throughout the conversation, his eyes traveling between his brother and Wrath as they argued, his armored face otherwise inscrutable. Now he spoke up, softly and hesitantly. "Um," he began. "As long as we agree not to cause any trouble, would you allow us the same freedom we had before? So that we can continue to look for a way to restore our bodies…please?"

The homunculus laughed. "Oh come on, Alphonse. Do you think I'm a fool? Do you really expect me to believe that's all you'll be doing?" Alphonse was fidgeting nervously, looking like a deer in headlights, while Edward's angry gaze had withdrawn to the empty air in front of him, lost in some dark place of his own. Wrath felt an uncharacteristic twinge of pity for them both.

He sighed, relenting. "All right, I suppose you're not strong enough to do any real damage. And I am mildly curious to see if you can manage to get your bodies back." What did he have to lose? It would keep things interesting. "I'll allow you to continue moving freely. As long as you don't cause trouble." Alphonse sagged with relief, and the boys numbly got up to leave.

But as they walked toward the door, something about the younger brother caught Wrath's eye. His gait was just slightly off, as if he were carrying extra weight on his left side. And something else had been unconsciously nagging him…what was it? Now he remembered: at one point during their conversation, Alphonse had coughed. Why would an empty suit of armor need to _cough_? He must have been trying to cover up another sound, something he didn't want Wrath to hear. It was likely that his armor wasn't empty after all; it wouldn't be first time he had hidden a person inside. And if someone needed to be hidden from Wrath, then that person was a threat.

"Alphonse, just a moment," he said. As the boy turned, he abruptly thrust his sword through the armor, just where the ribs would be.

Nothing happened. To Wrath's surprise, the sword had penetrated nothing but armor and air.

"Um, is there something wrong?" asked Alphonse politely.

"No," answered Wrath as he withdrew his sword. If there was someone hiding inside, they must be no taller than a child. Probably not a threat at all. He should break open the armor to make sure, but decided to leave it alone. Another little mystery to keep things interesting. "You may go."

* * *

Left alone in his office, Wrath had just one more loose end to tie up: who else had helped the Elrics? While the brothers had insisted that there was no one else involved besides the two Xingese assailants, Edward had been in too much of a rage for Wrath to tell if he was lying, and Alphonse's armor was permanently unreadable. But it had been an elaborate plan involving a safehouse and a getaway vehicle, and it was unlikely that two teenage boys and a pair of illegal immigrants could have marshaled those resources on their own.

The most damning evidence consisted of two incident reports that lay on his desk. The first concerned a soldier who had been mugged near the site of the battle, just before the fighting broke out. The private had been knocked unconscious by an unseen attacker, who had not only robbed him of his wallet but also his hat, glasses, and gun. The second report concerned the car his agents had seen parked outside of the safehouse. Earlier in the day, a local businessman and his wife had filed a complaint that a female military officer had confiscated that same car at gunpoint; she had worn glasses, and her hair was tucked up under a hat, but the man was fairly certain she was blonde. The paper crumpled in Wrath's hands, which were shaking with rage. Riza! There was no doubt in his mind that it had been her.

But he concentrated on steadying his hands, refusing to let his temper take control. Instead, he picked up a pen and paper. The first step in weakening an enemy was to cut off its support system. If Riza had found a way to help the Elrics, it was likely that the rest of his former subordinates were also involved, coordinating their efforts in some way he had not yet detected. (As expected of his team, he conceded proudly.) It was time to split them up for good.

He began scribbling out transfer orders. They would be sent as far apart as it was physically possible to get within Amestris. Breda would be dispatched to West City. Falman would to go the Briggs fortress in the North. Fuery, the most potentially troublesome due to his communication talents, would be sent to the Aerugo border war zone in the South—that should keep him too busy to make contact with the others. Their old territory of East City had too many potential allies (Grumman alone would be trouble), so Havoc would be assigned to a lonely guard outpost on the edge of the Ishvalan desert. When he was finished, Wrath picked up the phone and called for the Personnel Department to pick up the handwritten orders directly. Normally he would have given them to Riza to type up first, but he did not want her to learn of his plans just yet.

There was just one last detail to arrange. Smiling to himself, Wrath put in another call.

* * *

In hindsight, helping the Elrics try to catch a homunculus had been stupid, Hawkeye admonished herself later. Using Fuery's microphone to eavesdrop on Wrath and Pride, she had managed to piece together enough of the previous night's events to learn that the brothers' plan had failed spectacularly. Gluttony had escaped, and both boys had been captured. One of their Xingese accomplices had been so badly wounded that she had lost an arm. And the other—a man named Ling—had been forced into service as host for the Greed homunculus. He was a stranger, but Hawkeye had felt her heart sink when she overheard that last piece of news. Where would it end? How many more people would have to see their loved ones seized and turned into monsters?

The entire situation was precarious. She did not know what had been said to the Elrics in the confines of Wrath's office, but it was clear by their demeanor when they left that they had been threatened with grim consequences. And she had put herself at risk right along with them. Whether Wrath had figured out her role in the events was still a question; he had been irritable at the office, said very little to her for the whole day, and was ignoring her as they drove home—all of which was virtually indistinguishable from his normal mood.

He didn't break the silence until they were walking through the front door of the Bradley estate. "By the way," Wrath turned to her and remarked casually. "I've arranged a surprise for you." She immediately saw what it was: bounding toward her happily, barking a greeting, was her dog Hayate.

Hawkeye's heart sank further as the dog jumped up on her legs to greet her, and she patted his head weakly. "What—," she began, working to keep her voice from shaking, "—what have you done? What's happened to Fuery?"

He was wearing his usual smirk, but there was no humor in his eyes, and his voice dropped to a low growl. "Nothing—yet. What happens to him, and the rest of your teammates, and this creature, depends on you." His manner had grown severe and imperious, reminding her of Bradley, as his eyes bored through her. "That's right, my dear. I know all about your little stunt. Helping the Elrics capture Gluttony. Did you really think I wouldn't find out? When you were so obvious about it?" He paused, and for a moment he relaxed, his normal eye glittering with amusement the way the Colonel's used to. "It was hardly up to your usual standards, Lieutenant," he added. Then he seemed to catch himself, and resumed glowering at her.

"I presume that your teammates were also involved somehow," he continued. That was a good sign, Hawkeye realized; Wrath was guessing, which meant that he still didn't know how they were communicating or what they knew. "So I'm transferring all of them out of Central. Today." She stifled a gasp. "But the dog will stay here," he finished.

"As a hostage, I presume?"

"If you like. A token to ensure your cooperation, going forward."

Hayate aimed a few quiet barks toward Wrath, looking conflicted. The presence of homunculi upset him, Hawkeye remembered from their first encounter with Gluttony, but he also knew the Colonel as a friend. She stroked the dog gently to calm him. "Fine," she replied bitterly. "But even if I cooperate, how will I know he'll be safe here? With your temper? With Pride's?"

"If you cooperate, that creature has nothing to fear from me. I give you my word." Wrath's severe expression softened a bit. "I'm fond of Hayate, after all. And as for Pride…"

He trailed off as Mrs. Bradley walked into the room, her clothes slightly grimy from working in the garden. Hayate broke away from Hawkeye and ran up to the older woman, wagging his tail and barking an enthusiastic greeting. "Oh, Riza!" she beamed, petting the dog's head. "What a lovely dog you have! He's been helping me in the garden all afternoon. I hope you don't mind that we've been making friends."

Hawkeye's smile was sincere. "I don't mind at all, Mrs. Bradley. In fact, I'm delighted." Inwardly, she sighed with relief. If Hayate was important to Mrs. Bradley, then she knew neither homunculus would harm him without cause. Everything else might be falling apart, but that much would be OK, for now.

The dog panted happily, unaware that he was a tiny pawn in a chess game played by monsters. Wrath was smirking again. "You see, Riza," he said, "There's nothing to worry about. We're a family, after all. And we're all going to get along _just fine_."


	11. Calculated Risks

Chapter 11: Calculated Risks

Mrs. Bradley really was incredibly useful, Hawkeye reflected as she slipped quietly through the garden at 2:00 AM. The widow's affection for Hayate had kept him safe for the past ten days, even though it was clear that Pride hated the dog and would have killed him without hesitation otherwise. Hayate's habit of barking madly whenever he encountered the smaller homunculus had certainly not helped matters. The dog had remained alive for this long solely because Pride liked to keep his pretend mother happy.

That happiness also depended on maintaining the illusion that he was a normal child, which was the other useful part. Hawkeye alone would not have been able to track the comings and goings of the creature who skulked in the shadows, and wanted her to think that he was always watching. But a ten-year-old boy could hardly keep extended absences hidden from his mother. As a result, thanks to Mrs. Bradley, Hawkeye knew that Pride would be away from the house for a few days due to a "school trip," undoubtedly some mission whose nature she could only guess at.

She reached down to pet Hayate, trotting quietly beside her in the moonlight. With Pride gone, the only one she needed to watch out for was Wrath. That should be no problem at this hour; his human body still needed sleep, and as she knew from the many times she had caught the Colonel napping at his desk, once asleep he was very difficult to rouse. Hawkeye smiled at the memory of their old lives at the office, when her most pressing problem had been getting the Colonel to submit his reports on time. She felt a pang of longing. How idyllic those days seemed now.

There would be consequences for tonight's disobedience, she knew. But it was a relatively small act of rebellion, and she was taking a calculated risk that Wrath wouldn't harm her team members or grandfather over such a minor issue as a runaway dog, particularly now that they were all so far away. And whatever he would do to punish her personally, she was more than prepared to suffer.

Hawkeye wasn't completely alone now, but her support circle was definitely contracting. Even the Elrics had left town. A few days after the Gluttony incident, she had found a message in one of their emergency drop-off points, tucked behind a drinking fountain in a hallway near the Führer President's office. They were headed to North City in pursuit of a Xingese alchemist, a small ten-year-old girl who had somehow gotten caught up in the events in Father's chamber, and whose alchemy seemed oddly resistant to his powers. She also appeared to have some connection to Scar. It was a rambling, hastily-scrawled message, obviously written by Edward, who was not known for his attention to detail in written reports. There were confusing references to the girl almost being stabbed by Wrath while she was hiding inside Alphonse's armor, and something about a black-and-white cat. Well, it probably all made sense to them.

They had reached the gate at the edge of the property. "Stay," Hawkeye whispered to Hayate, who obediently sat. She flattened herself against the garden wall, peering through the gap between the wall and gate, waiting for the guards to pass by. The household, protected from within by the homunculi, had no need for extra security; the two soldiers patrolling the perimeter were purely for show, the Führer President's token honor guard. She waited impatiently for them to appear. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, until finally the guards came into view, walking slowly and chatting about their weekend plans. They were careless—good. When they had passed from view and she could no longer hear them, she opened the gate and slipped through. "Come on, boy," she whispered softly, and Hayate followed.

On foot, it took another hour to reach their destination, a neat brick building in the center of the city. Mindful of the black car that would undoubtedly be watching the building's entrance, Hawkeye chose a circuitous route through the back alley, knocking quietly on the service door in the rear. She was welcomed inside the darkened, empty bar by Madam Christmas.

The woman, as large and gruff as Hawkeye remembered from the wedding, puffed on a cigarette as she gave Hayate an appraising eye. "I'm not a dog person, myself," she said. "But I'll send him home with one of the girls. He should be safe there."

"Thank you," said Hawkeye, petting the dog's head absently, ignoring the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry to risk coming here like this. I just couldn't leave him in the house with those monsters."

Madam dismissed her apology with a wave. "Don't sweat it, kid. I wouldn't have left the little guy there either." She produced a stream of smoke as she exhaled. "And what about you, Lieutenant? How are you holding up?"

"Fine," Hawkeye lied, forcing a smile. "It's a little more difficult now with the rest of the team gone. But since you've been getting the messages, you know that we have some idea what the homunculi are planning, and when. Of course, we're still working out how to deal with Wrath." Madam stubbed out the remnants of her cigarette, wearing an amused smile that seemed to say: _I wasn't asking for a mission briefing, sweetie, I was asking how you were._ Hawkeye wasn't prepared to share such personal information, however, and the older woman didn't push.

"And how's my Roy Boy doing?" Madam asked as she lit another cigarette, with a forced casualness that Hawkeye recognized well.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "He hasn't…emerged in awhile." She didn't add, _and the next time he does, he's ordered me to kill him_, but the knowing look in the older woman's eyes told Hawkeye that she didn't have to say it. Madam knew her foster son well, after all. "He's still strong enough to keep Wrath out of my bedroom, at least," Hawkeye added with a wry smile.

Madam chuckled. "Good. I raised him to be a gentleman." She stepped behind the bar, rummaging out of sight for a few moments. "In the meantime, I have some intel for you," she said, pulling out a large envelope. "I've got eyes on your team members. They all appear to be safe, for the moment."

Hawkeye looked through sheaf of papers, which held addresses and status reports from unidentified informants, one for each man. They had all reported in at their new posts, at the far-flung ends of Amestris. She felt something like relief; any good news was much-needed. "Can you get messages to them?" she asked Madam.

"I can, but not easily, since they're all being watched. Wait until you've got something really important to tell them."

Hawkeye nodded. "Thank you for this. It helps to know that they're OK." She handed the papers back to Madam. "While we're on the subject of favors, have you made any progress with the ignition gloves?"

"Those are coming. Getting the gloves is the easy part. Getting them without Wrath hearing about it is another matter entirely. So just be patient a little longer." Madam exhaled smoke, and added, "In the meantime, I'm working on getting you some help. I don't want to say anything yet, until I get everything in place. But keep your eyes open."

It was getting late, and Hawkeye had stayed as long as she dared, so she said goodbye to Madam and gave a last regretful pat to Hayate, then headed back out into the night. It would be so easy to just keep going, she thought, to run away from that house for good, flee the city, cross the border into Creta or Aerugo and leave Amestris to its fate. But too many people were counting on her, and the Colonel most of all. So she she turned back the way she had come, threading her way alone through the dark city streets, then the suburban ones, until she once again reached the Bradley estate. She crouched unnoticed in some bushes outside the garden wall until the guards passed (amateurs!) before slipping back through the gate, deliberately leaving it ajar this time. It was about an hour before dawn as she crawled exhaustedly into bed, glad for the chance to catch a bit of sleep before she had to face Wrath again.

* * *

Over breakfast, Mrs. Bradley was beside herself. "I must not have latched the gate properly," she said for at least the fourth time, wringing her hands. "Oh Riza, I'm so sorry! You must be so worried!"

"Please don't be upset. It'll be fine. Hayate has run away before," Hawkeye lied reassuringly, putting a hand on the kindly widow's shoulder. "He'll come back." She hated deceiving Mrs. Bradley, who had done nothing to earn the misery that life continued to heap on her. Another pawn in the homunculi's heartless chess game. Across the table, Wrath watched the two women over his coffee cup, but said nothing.

"I'll make up some lost dog posters, and ask the guards to post them on street," Mrs. Bradley said, dabbing at her eyes as she excused herself from the kitchen. She had barely touched her breakfast.

Hawkeye stood up, intending to clear the plates—and found herself violently shoved against the kitchen wall, Wrath's hand pressed against her throat. "What have you done?" he growled at her. "I can see that you've been awake all night. Where is the dog?"

There was no point in lying this time. "Far away, where you can't reach him," she gasped, unable to suppress a tiny smile.

"So you still have allies."

"Yes."

"Who are they?" His grip on her throat tightened. He was breathing heavily with anger.

"I'm not telling you that," she managed to say, with difficulty. "But feel free to choke me if it makes you feel better." His snarl intensified, and for a long, fearful moment she thought he really might strangle her. Then gradually his grip loosened, until he finally let go. Hawkeye sagged against the kitchen counter, catching her breath.

"If you'd lied to me, I would have choked you," he said coolly, still glaring at her, his arms folded. "The dog is unimportant. But you both disobeyed me _and_ upset Mrs. Bradley, which is unacceptable." His visible eye narrowed, and once again he reminded her of Bradley. "It's time for us to head to the office. But rest assured, my dear, that we will settle this later."

* * *

Hawkeye spent the rest of the day on edge, worried about Wrath's coming retaliation. He had said nothing about her teammates or Grumman, which meant that she remained the most likely target of his rage. Hopefully the Colonel would be able to blunt any serious violence, but if not, fine; she could defend herself better than most. It was the suspense that was the worst part.

After an unnerving day at the office and a silent, tension-filled drive back, they arrived home to discover that Pride had returned. While Mrs. Bradley made dinner, "father" and "son" retreated to the study. Hawkeye withdrew to her room to listen in on Fuery's radio receiver.

"Marcoh has escaped," Pride was saying. "We have reason to think he was taken by Scar. I tracked them north for as long as I could, but since I had to return here, I had Envy send the Crimson Alchemist to finish the job."

"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Wrath. "Kimblee's a loose cannon."

"He may be a loose cannon, but he's our cannon. Don't worry about it," Pride responded dismissively. "And what do you have to report, Wrath?"

"The Elric brothers have also headed north." Listening from her room, Hawkeye nodded unconsciously. "It could be a coincidence, but we'll need to monitor the situation. And we should remind them that their cooperation is expected," Wrath added.

"Then we'll arrange for Kimblee to take care of that too," declared Pride. "Meanwhile, I see the dog is gone. I hope you killed it?"

"I'm afraid not. It seems Riza managed to spirit him away somewhere."

Pride let out a long sigh. "Wrath, you _idiot._ Can you not even bring a single human to heel, under your own roof?" Wrath made no reply. "All right," Pride continued. "If that noisy little vermin is gone, whatever the reason, I'm delighted. But that woman's disobedience needs to be addressed. I trust that you will administer a suitable punishment." The conversation became fainter as they moved toward the door, until Hawkeye could no longer hear them.

Over dinner, Pride bubbled with childish enthusiasm about the "cultural trip to Aquroya" he and his imaginary classmates had taken, and his presence lifted Mrs. Bradley's spirits considerably. After the two of them left the room, Hawkeye stood up to take her own leave, but Wrath grabbed her arm and sat her back down. "We still need to finish our discussion from this morning," he said with a grim smile.

"What am I going to do with you, Riza?" he continued. He propped his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together and leaned his chin on them, regarding her thoughtfully; and in that moment he reminded her so much of the Colonel that she had to look away. "You're afraid of me," he observed soberly. "You try to hide it, but I can see it clearly." She didn't reply.

"All right." He sat back in his chair. "I've watched you spend the whole day on edge, afraid of what I'm going to do to you. I can see that you feel terrible about what you did to Mrs. Bradley—as you should. And you've had to part with your dog again. I suppose I could conclude that you've been punished enough already." Smirking imperiously, he stood. "Count yourself lucky that I'm so fond of you, Riza. But also know that my patience has limits. Don't defy me again." He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the kitchen.

She watched him leave, breathing a silent sigh of relief as the day's pent-up tension finally drained away. She did indeed count herself lucky.

But just before disappearing through the door, Wrath paused and turned back to her. "By the way, I have a good idea who at least one of your allies is," he added. His smile was very cold. "The next time you contact Madam Christmas, give her my regards."


	12. Regrouping

Chapter 12: Regrouping

The dress shop was due to close in fifteen minutes when the last customer came in. Vanessa looked up from the mannequin she was dressing to see a young woman of maybe twenty, wearing a military uniform, her brown hair in an unkempt bob, and eyes framed by a spectacularly ugly pair of glasses. This was unusual; her customers were usually much more fashion-forward. "Good evening. Can I help you find something?" she asked politely.

"Um," the girl said, eyes darting nervously, "I have a coupon." She had been fingering a postcard-sized piece of paper, and now held it out. It read:

COMPLIMENTARY STYLE CONSULTATION  
_We fix fashion emergencies!_

Vanessa nodded, understanding. This would be Sheska, the girl with the photographic memory who had been recruited to help pass messages. In need of help. She stole a look out the window; there were no black cars, no agents, no one at all in sight. "Did anyone follow you?"

Sheska shook her head. "I don't think so. I was really careful."

"OK." Vanessa sized the girl up for a moment, then rooted through a clothesrack, pulling out the first dress she found in the appropriate size. "Just in case anyone's looking, try this on in the dressing room. Come out with it on, like you're asking my opinion. We'll keep talking in the meantime."

Sheska eyed the garment, a strapless red satin party dress, with alarm. "I really have to…?"

"It'll look suspicious if you don't. Go on." Vanessa pressed the dress into her hands, then turned back to her mannequin. Once the girl was settled inside the dressing room, she continued talking to her through the curtain. "What's your emergency? Are you safe?"

"I—think so," Sheska responded. "I don't think anyone knows about me. But, um, everyone else is gone. The people who recruited me, they've all been transferred to other parts of the country." She paused to take a breath. "And this morning, there was another memo from the Fuhrer President's office. I didn't know where to take it. They told me in the beginning that if anything like this happened, I should come here."

The girl was clearly frightened, but she had stuck to her mission. "You did the right thing," Vanessa reassured her. "I'll make sure the message gets where it needs to go."

Sheska emerged from the dressing room holding a folded envelope, which she handed to Vanessa with visible relief. She was wearing the dress as instructed; but her shoulders were hunched with embarrassment, her cheeks flushed almost as red as the satin, looking as if she'd been forcibly gift-wrapped. The hostess felt a twinge of sympathy; the girl clearly lacked self-confidence.

"You're doing great," Vanessa encouraged, turning back to the clothesrack. Perhaps something more subdued. She pulled out a sleeveless black cocktail dress and handed it to the girl. She looked pained, but took it and went back into the dressing room.

"Now let's talk about what to do next," Vanessa said. "We'll need a new drop-off point for the memos. It'll look odd if you suddenly start coming here regularly." Alas, no one would believe that this girl was a regular customer of a high-end fashion boutique.

"Um," Sheska countered gingerly from behind the curtain, "they told me in the beginning that if it wasn't safe, they would get my mother and me out of the country. Is it time for that? I mean, if the people who were getting the messages are gone now, do you even still…need me?"

She was getting cold feet, Vanessa realized. The girl was still a vital part of their operation, but she was a volunteer, not a professional operative. It would have to be her choice to continue. "We still need you, Sheska," she replied seriously. "Right now, Lieutenant Hawkeye has only two ways of contacting us, and the other way is limited to once a week. If there's an emergency in the meantime, you're the only way she has to reach us." She paused. "But it's your decision. If you're too scared to continue, we have two train tickets waiting, and we'll get you and your mother out of here like we promised. Tonight, if you want. You tell me."

There was a long pause. "OK," Sheska finally responded. "If it's important, then I'll stay, and keep helping." She still sounded frightened, but there was determination in her voice. _Good girl_, thought Vanessa, genuinely impressed. She wasn't hostess material, but she had talent and guts, and if they managed to live through the Promised Day, Madam would probably try to recruit her as a permanent operative. "Thank you," Vanessa told her sincerely.

Sheska emerged again. It was almost impossible to go wrong with a little black dress, but somehow the girl was managing, her hunched demeanor making the outfit look more suitable for a funeral. Vanessa sighed. All right, perhaps something not quite _that_ subdued. She made a last try; this time it was burgundy velvet with short sleeves, which Sheska accepted in defeat and trudged back to the dressing room. While she tried it on, Vanessa had her review her schedule, to think of a place she went regularly where she could discreetly connect with one of Madam's agents. They settled on a laundromat that she habitually used.

"If that's done, can I stop trying on clothes now?" Sheska asked timidly as she emerged once more, this time in the burgundy dress. Actually, this one wasn't bad—the color and style suited her, and she looked less mortified at wearing it. Yes, this dress could definitely work. But they would have to do something with the rest of her.

"All right," declared Vanessa. "We're almost done. We found you a dress, but now it's time for your makeover."

Now Sheska was truly alarmed. "W-What? Do we really have to…?"

Vanessa was determined to reward the girl for her efforts however she could. "No arguments. We promised you a style consultation, and you've earned it. In fact, I've never met anyone so deserving." She flashed the girl a charming smile as she took her by the wrist and all but dragged her over to the makeup counter. "We'll have to work on getting you some better-looking glasses. But for now, let's start with the hair."

* * *

Later that night, Hawkeye's latest memo made its way into the hands of its intended recipient, who read it with an ironic smile. Madam Christmas was ensconced in her office behind the bar, puffing on a cigarette, the muffled clink of bottles and the laughter of hostesses and clients faintly audible outside her door. The message read simply: MADAM, WRATH KNOWS YOU'RE INVOLVED.

The older woman appreciated the warning, but she hadn't needed it. Since the night of Hawkeye's visit, Wrath had dramatically upped his surveillance of her establishment. Now, in addition to the black car that perpetually hovered outside her window and the wiretaps on her phone lines—at least the ones he knew about—he had begun sending agents directly into the bar at night. They were large thuggish-looking men in black suits and sunglasses, who sat in dark corners, ignored the hostesses' flirtations, and glared threateningly at employees and patrons alike. ("Drachman business tycoons," Madam lied to her customers in a confidential tone, keeping her voice cheerful. "They're a little weird, but harmless. Just ignore them.") Last night there had been a woman loitering with them, a buxom brunette dressed in a black evening gown, long black gloves, and tall high-heeled boots, with a garish red tattoo on her chest. A pair of customers had mistaken her for a hostess before Madam had a chance to warn them off; the woman had responded with bizarre and insulting comments, and both men had left in a huff. Business was already down by forty percent.

It could have been much worse. Wrath obviously _suspected_ that she and her people were up to something, but he didn't seem to know exactly what. No agents had investigated Vanessa's dress shop or Madeline's sandwich cart. And thus far none of her girls, or her customers, or herself had been harmed, or even explicitly threatened. The bar was merely a front for her organization, and brought in only a fraction of its operating funds; if lost income were the only casualty, she could certainly afford it. Still, Madam had cultivated her brand identity carefully and was angry at seeing it tarnished. There was also a very real threat behind the harassment, and being under extra scrutiny made things more difficult—especially given the sensitive cargo she had just moved in from East City.

Well, she had only herself to blame, she reminded herself, stubbing out her spent cigarette and lighting a fresh one. She should never have indulged that Hawkeye girl in the nonsense with the dog. She had known it was a bad idea at the time, but she had a soft spot for the kid, and had gone against her own better judgment. There could be no more of that.

She used her lighter to burn the memo, throwing it into the ashtray on her desk and watching it flame into cinders. In her line of work, soft spots were dangerous. It was why she couldn't allow herself to think about Roy. Or of the creature that had latched itself, not only to his body but to his soul, twisting him into something evil that she no longer recognized as her son. If she let herself think about that, even for a moment, she would be so overwhelmed with grief that she wouldn't be able to do her job.

She sighed gruffly and stood up to leave. It was time for her to get back on the floor and banter with her clients; and after they were gone, she would see to that cargo. She didn't have time for sentimentality. Because right now, Madam doing her job might just be the only thing standing between all of them and oblivion.

* * *

Following the Hayate incident, Hawkeye also found herself under increased surveillance, as Wrath now assigned two bodyguards to shadow her whenever she left his presence. The new security arrangements were necessary, he explained in an official announcement, because he had uncovered a plot by Anti-Establishment terrorists to kidnap the First Lady and hold her for ransom. This preposterous lie apparently went unquestioned by either Wrath's men or the docile Amestrian press corps. But in a testament to his arrogance, rather than assign trained agents who would have known to look for signs of covert contact, he had simply pulled two soldiers from the honor guard to follow her around, probably assuming that she would be intimidated into compliance. It was a lucky break for her that the homunculi were so dismissive of humans. The Colonel had occasionally let overconfidence make him careless, but for Wrath, it seemed to be a permanent condition.

Today was her first time running her Wednesday errands under the new security regime. She made her way into the dress shop slowly, stopping to browse outside the front window first, giving Vanessa the opportunity to see that there were guards with her. But she realized quickly that she needn't have worried; preparations had already been made. "Welcome back, Mrs. Mustang," Vanessa greeted her effusively as she entered. For the first time, there was music playing from a hidden phonograph. "I was hoping you'd come in today. I have your alterations ready from last week." She handed Hawkeye a huge armload of dresses. "Why don't you try them on? Dressing room #1 is occupied, but #2 is open."

Something was clearly going on. As Hawkeye headed into the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, she heard Vanessa begin spinning a flirtatious sales pitch to the bodyguards, suggesting presents they could buy for their wives or girlfriends. In case that wasn't enough to distract them, the customer in dressing room #1 chose that moment to emerge and continue her shopping. An attractive, shapely blonde in a skimpy white dress, she gave Hawkeye a conspiratorial wink as she passed by. Oh, Madam and her people were good.

There was nothing obviously out of place in dressing room #2, but Vanessa had directed her here for a reason. _Keep your eyes open_, Madam had said. Hawkeye carefully examined the wall in front of her. Sure enough, all the way around the full-length mirror, there was a barely-visible seam. She gave the mirror an experimental push, and the wall clicked and swung open: a secret door.

Behind the door was a small room, and it was occupied. The tall, redheaded soldier inside was grinning at her. "Surprise!" he whispered. "Havoc!" Hawkeye whispered back in astonishment, now grinning herself as she shut the door. She was so glad to see her teammate that she gave him a quick hug, her usual reserved professionalism be damned. "How in the world…? You were being watched. How did you get away from Ishval?"

"I never reported there in the first place. Madam Christmas arranged it," he explained. "I got as far as East City before her people intercepted me. She convinced General Grumman to send someone to impersonate me. The post is so isolated that nobody who knows what I look like will probably ever go there." He grinned. "The new guy isn't quite as handsome, of course—"

"Or as modest, I'm sure. What about the others?"

Havoc shook his head. "The other posts are too populated for that trick to work. So I'm afraid you're stuck with just me." Hawkeye smiled nonetheless. If she could only have one member of the team with her, and it couldn't be the Colonel, she was glad it was Havoc. The two of them had been on many missions in the field, and fought well together.

"We've managed to stay in contact," Havoc continued. "Everybody's OK, for now. But South City's a war zone, and the North and West are starting to heat up too. The guys are going to have their hands full." He paused, then continued with a worried frown. "And what about you, Hawkeye? Are you OK in that house—really?"

She nodded, and gave him a reassuring smile that was mostly genuine. "I'm OK, Havoc. Really. The Colonel's keeping Wrath in line." She hesitated, not sure how much personal detail she wanted to share. "I have my own bedroom," she added finally. "You don't need to worry."

"OK," he replied, looking somewhat relieved. "Well, I'm here to help with the fight. Whatever you need me to do."

"Good. I'll think of some way to put you to work," she declared. "For now, what we could use most is intel from up north. The Elrics have headed up that way, plus a couple of other State Alchemists, and possibly Scar." She filled Havoc in on what she had overheard about Dr. Marcoh from Wrath and Pride.

He nodded. "I'll see what Falman can find out."

"And now I should get back out there, before my chaperones decide I've been kidnapped," she sighed.

Havoc gave her a quick, mostly humorous salute. Then he added seriously, "Good luck, Boss. Keep your head down."

Hawkeye smiled to herself as she left the secret room. He had never called her "Boss" before. It was what he used to call the Colonel. _I guess I really am the commanding officer now_, she thought. _Whether I like it or not._


	13. Rival Interests

Chapter 13: Rival Interests

Lust rolled over in her bed, stretching luxuriously. Wrath was already sitting up, reaching for his clothing. She sat up and leaned against his back, wrapped her arms around his chest, and began kissing his neck. "Leaving so soon?" she purred.

"I'm afraid so. I have things to do at home tonight." But he hesitated with a faint smile, distracted by her caresses.

"Home," she repeated in a mocking voice. "To your frigid little wife." He grimaced, but said nothing. "When are you going to kill that woman, and make me your First Lady instead?" she cajoled. "Father won't mind."

His response was a dry laugh. "That's not going to happen. And you're hardly suited for the job."

Her eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon? I have _ample_ qualifications."

Wrath gave her an appraising look up and down, and a smirk. "Looking like that? Half of my officers would try to screw you behind my back every day. And you'd let them."

"A girl's entitled to her hobbies."

"Sorry," he chuckled. "The First Lady needs to be just that—a lady." He turned away, resuming the search for his clothing. "And in spite of everything, I prefer the one I have."

Lust narrowed her eyes. "Pride's right, you know. You're too soft for that woman. It's a weakness. I should do you a favor, and kill her for you."

In the next moment, so quickly that she never saw him move, his hand was squeezing her throat. "_Don't_," Wrath threatened angrily, all the softness gone from his voice. "If you so much as put a scratch on Riza, I will end you."

"Tough words," she said smoothly, extending the fingernails of her right hand into blades that brushed his own throat. "Think you can take me on? I can regenerate, and you can't."

"You can't regenerate forever. And I can move faster than you can see. You'll be dust before you lay a hand on me." He smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. "You really want to do this?" They glared in silence at one another for several long moments.

Their standoff was interrupted by a loud, clumsy banging at Lust's door. She sighed in annoyance. "What do you want, Gluttony?" she called. Neither homunculus withdrew their hand.

"Um…" There was an aggravatingly long pause. "Father wants to see Wrath."

"Tell him I'll be right there," Wrath ordered over his shoulder. He turned back to Lust. "I believe we've finished this conversation." She gave him a cold smile in return. Then she slowly withdrew her fingernails, and he let go of her throat.

"You overestimate your chances, Wrath," Lust scowled. She picked up his pants from the floor and threw them at him. "Fine—I won't hurt your little human pet. But only because I can think of better things to do with you than fight."

* * *

Wrath took his time as he made his way through the curved corridors that led to Father's chamber. It was no great mystery why he had been summoned: the time had come for him to meet the new Greed. Father had stripped the rebellious homunculus of his memories before implanting him in his new human host, and now he was reintroducing him to his family slowly, hoping a gradual indoctrination would prevent a relapse of his troublesome behavior.

Other than Sloth, who was off digging the immense tunnel that formed the nationwide transmutation circle, Wrath was the last homunculus to be reintroduced. Father had delayed this particular meeting deliberately. After the original Greed had rebelled against Father and the other homunculi—considering them an impediment to his own ambitions—it had been Wrath who had hunted him down and defeated him, first killing his henchmen and then stabbing him, over and over, until his Philosopher's Stone was nearly depleted and he was on the edge of death. (It had taken an impressive four swords at once to do the job, as Wrath recalled.) Greed's memories of the events had been erased now, but it wasn't impossible that traces of his former life still remained. And although both homunculi had changed bodies since their last confrontation, there was still a risk that this meeting would trigger the return of those memories.

Wrath strode into the chamber, finding the newly reborn homunculus lounging against a pillar near Father's throne. He was wearing the same arrogant grin that Wrath remembered, and an ouroboros mark had formed on the back of his left hand as before. But both were now jarringly superimposed onto the body of the Xingese nobleman. He was still dressed in the man's traditional Xingese clothing, complete with sword.

"Wrath," Father's voice resonated from his throne. "Meet your new brother, Greed." Wrath suppressed a scowl—he didn't particularly like thinking of the other homunculi as siblings—and forced a smile.

"Nice to meet ya," replied Greed with a cheerful smile of his own. Then, with no warning, he pulled out his sword and lunged at Wrath, his expression utterly furious.

Wrath quickly dodged the attack and drew his own sword. So Greed remembered after all…He had to parry quickly as the homunculus lunged again, swinging around to aim for his blind spot—exactly like the Xingese nobleman had done when they'd fought. But Greed, whose method of possessing a human host was entirely different from Wrath's, shouldn't have access to that man's memories. Even more oddly, the ouroboros on his hand had disappeared. Was this even Greed—?

Father was taken aback by the turn of events. "Stop this at once," he boomed from his pedestal.

Wrath dutifully lowered his sword. But Greed—or whoever it was—ignored the command and lunged again, forcing Wrath to continue defending himself. This wasn't good. He had forgotten how well the Xingese man could fight. And now his body could regenerate.

"_Stop,_" Father repeated, louder this time. But Greed didn't let up his attack, and Wrath wasn't about to stand down and get hacked to pieces. They continued trading sword blows. Wrath was faster, of course, and managed to avoid being wounded; but neither was he able to hurt Greed, whose body simply regenerated and shrugged off every injury.

Slowly, ponderously, Father had climbed to his feet. **"STOP!"** he bellowed, emitting a blast of energy that knocked the two homunculi apart and sent them tumbling in opposite directions.

It took several moments for Wrath to regain his senses. As the dust settled, he climbed back to his feet, brushing himself off irritably. He was not having a good evening.

The second homunculus was also dusting himself off. The expression on his face had reverted back to Greed's cynical grin, and the ouroboros on his hand had reappeared.

"Hey. Sorry about that, bro," Greed apologized, one hand held sheepishly behind his head. "That wasn't me. This kid whose body I took, he's a little ornery. He's always looking for a chance to take back control. And he's really pissed off at you for hurting his girl."

Wrath granted him an annoyed smile. "Yeah," he said. "There's a lot of that going around."

Father, meanwhile, had made his way over to them. He was a being of perfection, who had deliberately purged himself of petty human emotions. Nevertheless, the expression on his face was one of pronounced irritation.

"My children," he intoned icily, his arms folded. "_You will behave!_"

* * *

The following afternoon, Hawkeye sat by herself in the plaza, enjoying a few minutes of relative solitude after running her weekly errands. While still saddled with a pair of bodyguards, she had endeavored to make the best of it; she had taken the trouble to learn their names (Captain Harris, Lieutenant Jameson), always greeted them with a smile, and even offered to buy them sandwiches whenever she got one for herself, although they inevitably demurred. Her investment in goodwill was paying off. Both men took their role as her "protectors" seriously, apparently unaware that their true purpose was to serve as prison guards. But they did seem to understand that their presence was an imposition, and when she asked nicely, they were willing to back off and give her some distance. They were doing so now as she ate lunch.

She had just come from meeting again with Havoc, hidden in the secret room in Vanessa's dress shop. "I got through to Falman," he had told her. "Turns out he's not being watched at all. They've got their hands full up at Briggs."

"So I've heard," Hawkeye had replied. It had been a particularly fruitful week for eavesdropping on Wrath and Pride.

They'd reviewed what they had both learned: that the homunculus Sloth, who had been travelling the country building the nationwide transmutation circle, had emerged in the basement level of the Briggs fortress, where he had promptly been captured by Major General Olivier Armstrong and her men. The Elric brothers were still at Briggs, and Havoc confirmed that they had been instrumental in the capture; although Armstrong's official report to the Fuhrer President denied this, stating that the boys had spent the entire time locked up on suspicion of being Drachman spies.

Wrath didn't believe Armstrong's account, Hawkeye had learned, and was sending General Raven up to Briggs to free Sloth and question Armstrong. A team of chimera troops was also being dispatched as backup. Meanwhile, Havoc had learned that Kimblee, the alchemist sent to retrieve Dr. Marcoh, had gotten into a nasty battle with Scar and was recovering in the hospital.

Hawkeye mused over all that information as she sat in the plaza. Armstrong's actions were interesting—could she potentially become an ally? The woman had a reputation as a powderkeg, but she commanded an impressive number of troops who were said to be fiercely loyal to her. And she was the sister of Major Alex Armstrong, who (if a little odd) was a good man and a friend. For now, the Major General was under too much scrutiny for their resistance circle to attempt contact, but they should stay alert for an opportunity.

She shook off the reverie and took a bite of her sandwich. She would need to get back to the office soon.

The sun-blasted plaza was usually deserted at this time of day, so Hawkeye was surprised to see a dark-haired woman stroll in. She was attractive, but oddly dressed in a long black gown, gloves, boots, and a tight-fitting jacket that barely covered her well-endowed chest. She strode casually over to Hawkeye's bench and sat down, at an uncomfortably close distance for a stranger. Immediately Hawkeye felt it: the same feeling of bloodlust she always sensed when a homunculus was nearby. "Hello, Riza darling," the woman purred.

The guards were back at Hawkeye's side in an instant. "Ma'am, is this woman bothering you?"

"No," she responded quickly, donning a bland smile. Whatever the homunculus was intending to do, the bodyguards had no hope of preventing, and Hawkeye knew she would kill them immediately if they tried to interfere. "This is…Susan. An old friend of mine."

"That's right," the woman played along, with a flirtatious pout. "The two of us go _way _back."

"Would you mind leaving us alone for a bit?" Hawkeye asked pleasantly. The guards hesitated, but finally Captain Harris nodded; they withdrew to the other side of the plaza, out of earshot but within view.

"Let me guess," she addressed the woman coolly. "You're called Lust?"

"You're perceptive." Her eyes travelled leisurely over Hawkeye's form. "And you've got a nice body. I can see why Wrath's attracted to you. What a pity you're such a cold little thing." She flashed Hawkeye an unnerving smile. "Of course, that works to my advantage."

_Oh._ Suddenly Hawkeye understood where Wrath had been spending his nights away from the house. She really hadn't wanted to know that. But she ignored the unexpected clutch in her stomach and returned the woman's gaze impassively.

"That's nice for you," she said, keeping her voice even. "Is there some reason we're having this conversation?"

"Indeed," Lust purred. "We have a common interest, you and I. You want to keep your husband out of your bed, and I want to keep him in mine." The homunculus idly stretched out an arm, holding her gloved hand up to the sun. "So I'm here to encourage you to keep doing what you're doing."

"And what is that, exactly?" asked Hawkeye.

Lust studied her perplexed expression. "Hmm, you haven't figured it out yet, have you? You have no idea what I'm talking about. Maybe you're not so perceptive after all."

"It would be helpful if you avoided speaking in riddles."

"Oh no, it's _much_ more fun this way," Lust laughed, with a glimmer of sadistic glee. "I like the idea of you being confused and miserable." She stood, her black gown falling into place with unnatural smoothness. "Good luck to you, Mrs. Mustang. I do hope you figure it out in time," she added over her shoulder as she walked away, her hips swinging seductively.

Once the homunculus was out of sight, Hawkeye stared down at the sandwich in her lap, all but a bite still uneaten. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but she had definitely lost her appetite.


	14. Breaking Point

Chapter 14: Breaking Point

Hawkeye returned to the office immediately following her meeting with Lust, turning the woman's words over in her mind as she walked. Why had the homunculus approached her? What had she been trying to say? She had deliberately chosen to make contact when Hawkeye was away from Wrath, and out of earshot of his agents. The behavior suggested that she had her own agenda, something she wished to keep from the other homunculi.

_We have a common interest, you and I. You want to keep your husband out of your bed, and I want to keep him in mine._

At the moment, the only thing keeping Wrath out of Hawkeye's bed was the Colonel's intervention. If Wrath were to finish absorbing the Colonel's soul, that intervention would stop. And if Wrath found his way into Hawkeye's bed, presumably he would have no more use for Lust. Buried within her cryptic words, then, Hawkeye was certain that the homunculus had given her a clue for how to help the Colonel.

_Keep doing what you're doing_, Lust had said. But just what was she doing? And why did Lust think she might stop?

Hawkeye had no answers by the time she reached the office. She briefly debated asking her guards to keep the encounter a secret, but decided there was no point. Even if they agreed, the agents in the black car still watched her every move, and had probably already reported the meeting. Indeed, as soon as she arrived back at work, Wrath called her into his office and proceeded to interrogate her.

"You had a conversation with Lust," he stated accusingly from behind his desk.

"Yes. She approached me."

"What did she say?" He was furious—much more at Lust than at her, she noted.

But Hawkeye had no intention of sharing the full conversation with Wrath. "She made it clear that you two are sleeping together," she replied coolly. "Something that neither concerns nor interests me, incidentally."

"What else?" he demanded suspiciously.

"That was it. She was gloating." She could hear the irritation in her own voice.

Wrath narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you." He leaned closer to her over his desk. "What else did she say to you? Tell me her _exact_ words."

"_She didn't say anything else!_" Hawkeye snapped, with a vehemence she hadn't intended.

Wrath sat back in his chair, surprised by her reaction. "I see," he said after a moment. Then he steepled his fingers, eying her keenly, a smirk creeping onto his lips. "You're jealous."

"Don't be ridiculous," she spat, feeling her cheeks redden. She stood up to leave, and he let her go, his laughter echoing behind her. She thought angrily as she strode out_: You aren't the one I care about, you monster._

But Wrath stayed in an insufferably good mood for the rest of the day.

* * *

Later, when the moment came, it was with virtually no warning.

The most dangerous time of the day for Hawkeye was when she went to bed. Once she had entered her bedroom, she could lock the door and barricade it with a chair; it wouldn't be enough to keep Wrath out if he were really determined, but he would make enough noise to give her some time to react, and the Colonel would likely stop him long before that anyway. No, it was the few seconds _before_ the door closed that was the problem. He simply moved too fast for her to keep him out.

Tonight was one of those nights. As soon as she stepped through the doorway, he was waiting for her, flashing his trademark smirk as he stood by her bed. "Get out of my room, Wrath," she said coldly, arms folded across her chest. "You already know this isn't going to work."

The homunculus shrugged, still smiling. It was the farthest he had made it into her room without losing control, and he looked quite pleased with himself. "Your Colonel is getting weaker. Soon he won't be able to stop me at all," he taunted.

"Soon?" she asked, with deliberate casualness. "But presumably, not tonight."

"Not tonight," he conceded. "Unless you're ready to dispense with this charade." Slowly, calmly, he walked over to her. "I'm confident that my human host won't interfere if you come to me willingly," he said smoothly. He took her hand in his, caressed it gently.

She pulled her hand away, repulsed. "That's not going to happen."

As always, her rejection angered him. He recaptured her hand and gripped her wrist painfully, his face curling into a snarl. It was the opening the Colonel had been waiting for—his right eye suddenly snapped into place.

"_Lieutenant, do it now!"_ he shouted through gritted teeth.

It was an order. Without hesitation, without another thought, she pulled out her dagger and plunged it at his heart.

There was a crash and the pain of impact, and she was lying on the floor, propped awkwardly against the back wall of the bedroom. He had thrown her across the room. She hadn't killed him. Relief mingled with alarm as she jumped back onto her feet.

Wrath was standing by the bed, breathing heavily with anger, a diagonal furrow of blood on the left side of his shirt leading from his chest to his collarbone, and up his left cheek. He was glaring at her, the ouroboros in his right eye twitching, but otherwise holding steady. This was very bad.

He closed the distance between them in an instant, and she found herself on the floor again, pinned on her back with him over her, his hands pressing her wrists against the floorboards. He was staring into her eyes intently, his one normal eye filled with a mix of emotions she couldn't identify. "Why are you doing this, Riza?" he demanded hoarsely. "We've both been waiting for _so long_. And now we're here, together…"

She stared in disbelief. Did this monster really believe those stolen feelings were his own? "Sorry, but you're not the one I've been waiting for," she taunted, genuinely angry. She jerked her wrists, moved her body, testing the strength of his grip. "I'll keep waiting for the real man."

He smiled coldly, the ouroboros still twitching. "I'm afraid he's not com—" She kneed him hard in the groin unexpectedly, twisted and broke free, bolted for the door. She didn't make it, crashing to floor as he tackled her. He was in even more of a rage now, and the ouroboros was weaving madly in response, but he maintained just enough control to shove her into the bedroom closet and slam the door. Her heart pounding, she heard him drag a chair over and wedge it under the doorknob.

From the darkness, she could hear him breathing as he leaned against the closet door. "I'm going to leave you in there for now, Riza," he said evenly, his voice a low growl. "If we continue this argument, I'll end up seriously injuring you, and we will both regret that." _As if you could_, she thought bitterly. _Not tonight._

His footsteps receded. Hawkeye worked the doorknob, but the chair was wedged too tightly, keeping her trapped. She slipped to the closet floor, hugging her knees in the cramped darkness, slowing her breathing, calming down. Now what? She knew now that she wouldn't be able to kill Wrath by attacking him directly; the Colonel wasn't strong enough to restrain him that far. The thought shouldn't have filled her with as much relief as it did. She was still in personal danger, and now so were her teammates and grandfather, at the mercy of Wrath's retaliation. She needed to get out of this closet and warn them—_now_.

Groping around in the dark, she quickly located a clothes hanger, then unfastened her hairclip and took it apart. If the doorknob wouldn't budge, she would dismantle it. If that didn't work, she would remove the hinges.

Ten minutes later, she kicked her way out of the closet, leaving a trail of door hardware and makeshift tools behind her. Time to go. She ran out of the bedroom door—

—and into shadows.

"Going somewhere, stepmother dear?" asked Pride, as he smothered her into darkness.

* * *

Hawkeye came to on the bedroom floor, her head throbbing, her throat bruised. _Not again_, she thought hazily. Then she sat bolt upright with a gasp. Sunlight was pouring through the windows; it was already morning. She hadn't been able to warn anyone. Wrath would have had all night to exact his revenge.

Her heart was pounding as she ran down the stairs, but she lurched to a halt outside the kitchen. Wrath and Pride were arguing, loudly.

Wrath was shouting. "—_my_ responsibility, not yours! How dare you interfere with my affairs!"

"I warned you, Wrath," Pride responded angrily. "If you're not going to discipline that woman properly, I will do it myself. Hopefully this example will teach her a lesson." His tone changed. "I know you're there, _stepmother_. You might as well come in."

Swallowing her fear, she walked cautiously into the kitchen. The eyes of the two homunculi bored into her, Wrath scowling as he stood, Pride's face impassive as he sat at the table. "What have you done?" she demanded, addressing Pride. "What example?"

He smiled imperiously and slid a piece of paper toward her across the table. A telegram, addressed to her, from East City Military Headquarters. With dread gnawing at her, she opened and read it.

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT GENERAL GRUMMAN HAS SUSTAINED LIFE-THREATENING INJURIES IN  
AN AUTOMOBILE CRASH. HE IS CURRENTLY AT EAST CITY MILITARY HOSPITAL IN CRITICAL CONDITION.  
HE WILL LIKELY SURVIVE, BUT HIS INJURIES ARE EXTENSIVE AND FULL RECOVERY IS UNCERTAIN.

She found a chair behind her and sank into it. He wasn't dead. But this was her fault; she had failed to kill Wrath, failed to warn her grandfather, and now he had paid the price.

"I could have killed him, of course," Pride said casually. "But I find that with humans, prolonged suffering of a loved one works just as well as a motivational force, and without the waste of a hostage." He stood up, his ten-year-old boy's face wearing a cherubic smile. "I trust that you'll be better-behaved in the future, Riza." He walked out of the kitchen.

Wrath's face was twisted in its usual expression of rage, now directed at Pride as well as her. "You brought this on yourself, you know," he snapped. He had changed out of his bloody shirt, but his cheek still bore a deep gouge from her dagger.

"May I visit him?" she asked quietly.

"Of course not!"

She stared unseeing at the telegram in her lap, her eyes blurring with tears she wouldn't allow herself to shed. But after a few moments, she was startled by the touch of a hand under her chin.

Standing over her, Wrath tilted her face up toward his. It was definitely him—the ouroboros was fully visible—but his expression was unexpectedly gentle. "Maybe in a couple of weeks," he relented. "Show me that you can behave until then, and I'll let you visit your grandfather." Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her alone.

She stared after him in shock. It was even worse than she had believed. In that moment, Wrath hadn't been channeling either Bradley's personality or Mustang's. He had been a perfect blend of the two.

The bonding process still wasn't complete, she knew instinctively. Not yet. He would have told her, would have gloated, probably would have dragged her into his bedroom immediately. But there was no doubt in her mind that her actions had brought him closer to that goal.

Lust's words came ringing back to her. _Keep doing what you're doing._ Up until now, she had been doing nothing—she had not raised a hand against Wrath. And now that she had, it had destabilized whatever mechanism was keeping Wrath and the Colonel apart. That must have been what Lust had been trying to tell her: that attacking Wrath was a mistake.

Hawkeye swallowed hard, finally unsuccessful at halting the tears from spilling down her cheeks. It was too dangerous. To the Colonel—whether she succeeded or failed—and to the people she cared about who were being used as hostages. Orders or no orders, she would not try to kill Wrath again. Not like this.


	15. Model Behavior

Chapter 15: Model Behavior

The train from Central City to East City left at 7:55 AM. This time of year, there was a chill in the morning air as the wind blew through the cavernous train station. Hawkeye pulled her uniform jacket more tightly around her shoulders and stifled a shiver as she waited.

As they had often over the past two weeks, her thoughts travelled to her grandfather, whom she hadn't seen, nor been allowed to speak to by phone, since the "accident." Her mind flooded worry and guilt, but she did her best to push it aside. She knew that he wouldn't want her pity, or for her to be preoccupied with his condition when she had her own mission to fulfill.

And she did have a lot to worry about at home. Since the night she had tried to kill Wrath, when she had seen the first hint that the homunculus' absorption of the Colonel's soul had accelerated, she had been on edge, scrutinizing his behavior, speech and mannerisms for clues to the status of that process. If he noticed her scrutiny (and he probably did, since his eyes missed very little), he didn't acknowledge it. For the most part since then—to her considerable relief—he had reverted back to his former pattern of behavior, channeling Bradley at some times and the Colonel at others, but not both at once. The two personas still appeared to be separate, at least for now.

There had been one notable change since then, however: Wrath had halted his incursions into her bedroom. Perhaps he had decided it was too much trouble, or perhaps some part of him actually regretted what had happened. Either way, Hawkeye wasn't about to question her good fortune. For her own part, she had done as he had asked, and "behaved" for the last two weeks. There had been no coded messages in the memos she wrote, no attempts to grill him for information over the breakfast table, and she had even put genuine effort into being pleasant at the military and social events she was made to attend. She continued to listen in on Wrath and Pride's conversations undetected, and her smile still concealed a variety of treasonous plots and scenarios, but outwardly she was a model of compliance. For the moment.

Amid this uneasy truce, Wrath had decided that she had earned the promised trip to visit her grandfather. He would accompany her as far as East City, then continue on himself to the northern fortress of Briggs, where he had business of his own. Now Hawkeye waited, off by herself on the platform, as he attended to some arrangements with his entourage of junior officers.

"Psst. Lieutenant Hawkeye!"

It was Havoc's voice. From the corner of her eye, she saw her team member hiding behind a pillar, shielded from Wrath's view. Something must be very wrong, for him to take such a risk…Without responding or looking directly at him, she moved closer, her heart beating with apprehension.

"Hawkeye. You've got to get out of here," he murmured, his voice urgent. "Wrath knows everything. The secret codes, all our plans, everything!"

She stole a look at him. Something was off. He was wearing his usual goofy grin, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips—both totally inappropriate for the situation. There was a very un-Havoc-like glint of malicious glee in his eyes. And he was giving off the same indefinable aura of bloodlust as the homunculi. Her heart pounded; had they gotten to him too? No, instinct told her that this was something else.

"What plans are those, Havoc?" she asked quietly.

"We can't talk here. Come on, we need to go now!" He still wore a grin.

She turned toward him fully, no longer worried about discretion. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said at full conversational volume. "I would never plot against my husband."

"Tch," Havoc responded. Before her eyes, his features melted away, glowing and reforming into those of an effeminate young man with spiky black hair and a skimpy outfit, an ouroboros tattoo visible on his left thigh. "Too bad," he grinned, "I was hoping you'd screw up and get in trouble. And maybe get yourself killed. Then I wouldn't have to share a train compartment with human trash."

"_Envy._" Wrath had appeared, in a characteristically irritable mood. "Stop bothering my wife." The second homunculus shrugged and walked off, snickering to himself as he changed into the form of one of Wrath's aides. In the distance, a long whistle signaled the approach of their train.

"Charming friend you've got there," Hawkeye muttered. "So he's travelling with us?"

"He's not my friend," snapped Wrath.

* * *

Although she didn't allow it to show, Hawkeye was genuinely rattled as she and Wrath boarded the train. Learning that there was a homunculus that could copy other people was worrisome enough. But she was especially concerned that Envy had chosen to copy Havoc. Was this his way of telling her that the homunculi knew he was in Central? If so, why hadn't Wrath confronted her about it?

Envy had disappeared somewhere on the platform ahead of them before they boarded. Now as they entered their compartment, Hawkeye was startled to find it already occupied—by herself. The Riza Hawkeye in front of her was snickering and wearing a malevolent grin, but otherwise, the likeness was stunning. She ignored the homunculus as she seated herself. Wrath made no comment as he took his seat beside her, but shot Envy a particularly withering glare. The junior homunculus shrugged, then glowed and reformed into Sergeant Major Fuery. That reassured Hawkeye; perhaps his choice of Havoc had been a coincidence, just a member of her team he had chosen at random. Wrath, apparently satisfied, picked up a newspaper and paid them no further attention.

So now there were two homunculi headed up north, Hawkeye reflected as the train pulled out of the station. Her eavesdropping on Wrath and Pride, and Havoc's communication with Falman, had given her some indication of the situation there. She knew that General Raven and a squad of chimera troops had been dispatched to Briggs, with orders to free the homunculus Sloth and interrogate Major General Armstrong regarding his capture. Meanwhile Kimblee, the Crimson Alchemist, had been sent north to retrieve Dr. Marcoh and deal with Scar. He had also been instructed to rein in the Elrics, who were busy causing trouble as usual; to that end, he had taken their friend Winry with him as a hostage.

Fortunately for the resistance effort, both men had already failed their missions. General Raven was now missing and presumed dead, while Kimblee had spectacularly managed to lose both of the Elric brothers, Winry, Dr. Marcoh, Scar, and even four of the chimera troops, all of whom—incredible as it sounded—were believed to have joined forces. Wrath seemed perversely pleased at the scope of this failure, since he had warned Pride against relying on Kimblee. Now he was travelling to Briggs to sort matters out himself.

If those events hadn't been dramatic enough, late last night, a call had been made to the Führer President's office by a man claiming to be one of the runaway chimera soldiers. He'd reported that he was in the northern town of Asbec, where Alphonse Elric, Dr. Marcoh, Scar, and a few other associates had taken shelter in a nearby Ishvalan refugee camp; and that he would turn them in for the right price. If his offer was genuine, it would be a disaster for the resistance, and very convenient for the enemy—so convenient, in fact, that Hawkeye was certain it was a setup, probably another of the Elrics' crazy attempts to trap a homunculus. Since Envy was travelling north, it appeared he was the one taking the bait. She just hoped the boys had thought this particular plan through a bit better than the last one.

Oddly, the informant had reported that Edward Elric was not with them. He claimed that the young alchemist and two of the chimeras had been separated from the main group, and that their whereabouts were unknown. Perhaps it was simply a lie to make the trap sound less dangerous than it was. But if so, it was a strange choice of lies; Edward and Alphonse were known for being virtually inseparable.

As Hawkeye considered all these developments, she kept finding her attention distracted by Envy, who changed his appearance every few minutes. Now she was convinced that he had picked Havoc at random, since he was cycling through all her teammates: after Fuery, he turned into Falman, then Breda. While she was admittedly taken aback when he shrank down and turned into Hayate, she continued to ignore him. He was obviously trying to get a rise out of her, and seemed frustrated that she was failing to cooperate.

A few minutes later, she found herself looking at a twin of Wrath, complete with eyepatch, and even the deep cut she had made on his cheek with her dagger. This was starting to get annoying. "You like this one better?" the homunculus goaded, grinning and snickering. Wrath glanced up at the proceedings over his newspaper, but did not otherwise react. "Or maybe you'd prefer this version," Envy continued. Now the eyepatch glowed and reformed into a normal eye, the cut disappeared, and his clothing changed from the Führer President's dress uniform to that of a regular officer. He was copying the Colonel.

Hawkeye clamped down on her irritation and smiled. "I _definitely_ prefer that version," she said pleasantly. (Off to her side, Wrath shot her an offended glare, which she ignored.) "The dim-witted expression isn't quite right, but otherwise it's a very good likeness." Envy was grinning now, pleased with himself. "They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," she continued. "You're called Envy, right? Is that your secret? Do you envy the humans you copy?"

His smile disappeared. "Shut your mouth, bitch," he snarled. As he glowed and reverted to his former adolescent form, his right arm stretched out and shot towards her, aiming for her throat—where it was abruptly chopped off at the wrist by Wrath's sword.

"Ow! What the hell, Wrath? She had that coming!" Envy howled as he retracted his arm. The severed hand crumpled into ash, while a new hand regenerated amid a flash of red light.

"I thought I told you to quit bothering my wife," Wrath scowled. Envy fumed, but did not respond.

Wrath turned to Hawkeye and continued sternly. "Riza, my dear, the whole purpose of this trip was for you to show me that you can behave properly. If you continue to bait Envy, I will have you put off the train at the next stop and escorted home, and you won't get to see your grandfather." She bit back a retort, and instead flashed him a sweet smile.

Envy had resumed snickering. "And Envy, you will remain silent, or I will also have _you_ put off this train. While it's still moving," Wrath snapped. Envy quieted down, folded his arms over his chest, and slumped in his seat, his expression sullen.

With a satisfied smirk, Wrath returned to his newspaper. There were no more disturbances for the remainder of the trip.

* * *

There was only one bright spot to everything that had happened, Grumman mused as he lay his hospital bed: he had an exceptionally lovely nurse. Daphne, a shapely strawberry blonde, gave him a charming smile as she carried in his dinner tray and set it on the bedside table. Of course, she would have looked even prettier if she'd worn some makeup, done something with her hair besides tucking it under her hat. Pretty enough to work in a hostess bar, in fact.

"Your granddaughter's train just arrived at the station," she filled him in as she plumped his pillow. "She'll be here soon. But word is that the Führer President is coming with her."

"Of course he is," he grumbled. "You'd better get out of here, then. He might recognize you."

"Already on it." She passed a hand dramatically over her forehead. "I'm suddenly feeling terribly dizzy. I'm afraid I need to go home early." She gave him a wink as she left the room. "See you tomorrow. Eat some of that dinner, OK?" He gave her a wry smile, but made no promises.

The truth was, he'd had no appetite at all since the accident.

It had been a routine drive, returning home late at night from General Warren's retirement banquet. A pleasant evening overall. As they drove through the hilly, wooded road back to Grumman's suburb, his driver—Lieutenant Sampson, a good kid—was relating an entertainingly ribald rumor about General Hakuro that was circulating among the troops. Then they came around a curve, and without warning, plowed into a monster.

There had been no time to stop. Grumman still saw a flash of its image every time he closed his eyes: huge, round, hairless, with an enormous mouth and tongue, almost comical, like a giant baby. It had been like slamming into a brick wall, shrieking metal and crushing pressure as the car crumpled around them, a moment that seemed to last an hour. Afterward, Grumman had come back to his senses in a haze of pain, his mouth full of blood, his body pinned inside the twisted wreckage of the car. Sampson had been utterly still, his head and shoulders thrust through the windshield; dead already, if he was lucky. In his last moments of consciousness, Grumman had seen the monster's face peering down at him through the wreckage. It had spoken to him in a child's drawl, with words that still rang in his ears, and chilled him to the bone.

_Too bad. Pride says I can't eat you. _

He had woken up in the hospital a day later. By then, the incident report had already been filed by the team that had found him. The official conclusion was that a deer must have run into the vehicle's path, then dragged itself away. The driver was assumed to have been thrown clear of the wreckage, somewhere in the adjacent ravine; but the search teams hadn't found his body, which they concluded had been scavenged by wolves. Grumman didn't bother correcting the report. Who would have believed him?

His appetite wasn't helped by the fact that he felt like crap physically. His old body had been battered and broken, and he was on a raft of antibiotics and painkillers. The prognosis for his legs wasn't good: there was only a 30% chance that he would walk again. But at least he was alive.

Grumman had received no explanation for the attack. He assumed it had been a message for his granddaughter, punishment for some transgression she had committed. It made him shudder to think of her trapped in the midst of those monsters. Riza was tough and capable, but she wasn't indestructible, and it pained him that there was nothing he could do to help her. He'd repeatedly tried to get some of his men on the inside, to infiltrate Wrath's network of covert agents, or at least his honor guard, to give her some backup. So far, he'd been stymied at every turn.

His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the door. The Führer President's entourage had arrived.

Wrath strode into the room, a long black coat draped over the shoulders of his dress uniform, wearing a smug smile—it was ghastly, watching that monster parade around in Roy Mustang's skin. "Hello, old man," he said pleasantly, his arms folded. "I've brought your granddaughter to visit you."

Riza brushed past the homunculus, ignoring him, and leaned over Grumman's bedside to give him a long hug. "Grandfather, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Hush," Grumman muttered. "None of that, now." As she straightened, her face was set in a stoic mask, but he knew her well enough to tell that she was blinking back tears. He must look terrible; he was still covered from head to toe with black bruises, his arms bristling with IV tubes. "If I could get out of this bed, I would knock your head off, you smug bastard," he threatened Wrath in a voice that shook feebly, his head lolling weakly on his pillow.

Wrath was laughing at him. "Then it's certainly lucky for me that you can't, isn't it? You have Riza to thank for your condition, by the way."

"That's a nice gouge you've got on your face," he taunted back, defiant in spite of his frailty. "Granddaughter, please tell me that was your handiwork." Wrath scowled, as the tiniest of smiles crept onto Riza's lips. "As far as I'm concerned, it was worth it," Grumman added.

Wrath gave them both a baleful glare for several more moments, then sighed dismissively. "Well, as much as I hate to leave this touching family reunion, I'm afraid I have things to do. Goodbye, old man. Riza, I'll see you at home when my business up north is concluded." He turned and strode for the door.

He paused in the doorframe to address a pair of bodyguards who were standing at attention in the hallway. "Captain Harris, Lieutenant Jameson, you are to continue guarding my wife at all times. She goes _nowhere_ unescorted. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" the men responded with salutes. Then Wrath was gone.

Grumman waited until the door to the room had swung closed. "He's letting the guards stay out in the hall," he murmured. "They won't be able hear us. He's sloppy."

"The homunculi don't take us humans very seriously," Riza agreed somberly, taking a seat beside the bed.

"Then they're fools," replied Grumman in a voice that was suddenly much stronger, as he easily pulled himself upright in the bed. "Lucky for us. Now, Granddaughter, let's get down to business, and figure out how we're going to defeat these bastards."

He watched Riza's face break into a smile as the realization dawned: that he may be battered, and he may unable to walk, but he was nowhere near as feeble as he'd been pretending in front of Wrath. And he wasn't done fighting yet. Not by a long shot.


	16. Reckoning

Chapter 16: Reckoning

"Took you long enough to get back here," groused Envy, arms crossed as he slouched in his seat. "It must be _so nice _to have the entire train wait for you while you go play with your humans."

Wrath shrugged as he took his own seat in their compartment. The train had indeed been waiting for him, and now that he was aboard, it pulled out of the station almost immediately, continuing on its journey to North City. "It can't be helped. I'm just a lot more important than you are," he replied with a smirk as he settled in.

"Tch," Envy responded with disgust. "Why are you even on this trip, Wrath? Don't you have people who can go to Briggs for you?"

"Yes, but I felt like handling this job personally." _Because the Elrics are involved, and they're trouble. I know them too well_, Wrath added to himself. He picked up a fresh newspaper and retreated behind it, mostly to avoid having to talk to Envy.

Envy scowled, clearly put out that Wrath was ignoring him. He stared out of the train window for a few minutes, fidgeting restlessly; then he began changing form, either to amuse himself, provoke Wrath, or both. While they were travelling, the shape-changing homunculus was supposed to masquerade as Captain Peters, one of Wrath's aides (the real man having been dispatched on a pointless errand to South City to avoid confusion). But he disliked Peters' face—it was too plain, he insisted—and refused to wear it when no one else was looking. He was so petulant about it that Wrath had given up fighting him; with Envy, one had to pick one's battles. Now, instead, he began cycling through the faces of the junior officers that had accompanied them on the trip.

Wrath continued to ignore him, instead flipping through his newspaper, the Eastern evening edition. Most of the news was recycled from the Central City paper he'd read this morning, but his attention was drawn by the local articles. He'd spent most of his military career living in East City, and as the train rolled on and the time passed, he found himself pleasantly immersed in reading about familiar people and places. The Black Swan restaurant, one of the most upscale in the city, was closing after the death of its elderly owner; he had taken many dates there back in the day. The modest neighborhood where he'd lived as a Lieutenant Colonel was getting a new park. And the city's head police constable, Lemieux, was being investigated on bribery charges. He felt himself grin at the last item. His team had occasionally been called upon to help investigate crimes the police were unable to solve, and that corrupt idiot had been a constant thorn in their sides. Breda did a particularly dead-on impression of him, and they'd had a lot of good laughs about it…

His thoughts trailed off as he paused in reflection. Those were all Mustang's experiences, of course. The man's memories were coming to Wrath more naturally now, to the point that he frequently had to stop and think about which recollections were Bradley's and which were Mustang's. It was a good sign, confirmation that the bonding process was advancing more quickly. It was still taking a frustratingly long time—his human host had been much stronger than expected, and was battling him every step of the way—but if things continued the way they were now, it should only be a matter of a few more weeks.

Wrath wondered how much of that process Riza was able to discern. She had definitely noticed right after her attempt to kill him; the shock of recognition on her face had been unmistakable. But did she know that the bonding was continuing to accelerate, and had she figured out why? Probably not, he decided, since he had been making an effort to hide the signs from her. Besides, if she understood what was happening, she would definitely be trying to do something about it.

His rumination was interrupted by a knock on the door of their train compartment. That would be Lieutenant Bryant, another of his aides, bringing him the latest reports telegraphed in from Central. "Come in," Wrath barked absently. Too quickly, he realized a split second too late, because Envy—now frozen in alarm—was wearing the form of Lieutenant Taylor, a redheaded soldier who was on the train with them. As Bryant stepped through the door, he startled at the sight of "Taylor," and glanced back over his shoulder in confusion, undoubtedly having walked past the real lieutenant on his way here. But he recovered quickly, presenting the dispatches with a crisp salute as if nothing was amiss.

Once he was gone, Wrath wheeled on Envy. "You idiot!" he snapped.

"_You_ should have been paying attention!" Envy snapped back, indignant. After a moment he added, "Should I go kill that guy?"

"No," Wrath sighed irritably, rubbing his forehead. "That would look even more suspicious." If the lieutenant talked, they could kill him quietly later, then spread a rumor that he'd been dishonorably discharged for drunkenness. That would explain away any strange stories he might tell. But he seemed like a smart kid, so hopefully he would keep his mouth shut. "Quit screwing around," Wrath told Envy crossly. "Wear the face you're supposed to wear. Or at least stop copying identifiable people."

Envy rolled his eyes. "Fine," he grumbled. "But I'm not wearing that stupid Peters. I'll come up with a totally new face."

He spent the next ten minutes cycling through his features, randomly copying parts of various humans. General Raven's hair. Alex Armstrong's chin. General Hakuro's ears. He was obviously still trying to get a rise out of Wrath, who refused to take the bait, pointedly studying his newspaper instead.

But he kept going. Captain Fokker's nose. Maria Ross' beauty mark. Maes Hughes' eyes and glasses.

The newspaper slammed down. "_Envy!_" Wrath was suddenly enraged."_Cut. It. Out._"

Envy snickered, pleased with himself. "Whatever. We're almost at my stop anyway." The train was already slowing. He finally returned his features to those of Captain Peters, and resumed staring out of the window.

Wrath returned his attention to the newspaper, but his eyes passed over its words repeatedly without reading them. He was so angry that his hands were shaking. It was the reminder of Maes Hughes that had set him off. But why? That was also Mustang's memory. Even with the bonding process advancing, it shouldn't be affecting him like this.

His thoughts were interrupted by the train conductor's announcement that they had arrived at Asbec, as the train pulled into the village's tiny station.

"So long, Wrath," grinned Envy as he stood and left the compartment.

"Good riddance," Wrath muttered in reply.

Once he was gone, Lieutenant Bryant reappeared at the compartment door. "Führer President, sir, is there anything you need before we get moving again?" he asked timidly.

"No," Wrath answered curtly. "I'm going to take a nap. I don't want to be disturbed until we get to North City." The lieutenant saluted and left, closing the door behind him. Through the window, Wrath's eyes bored into the back of Envy's head as he walked away. He had already reverted to his usual teenaged appearance. Attention-seeking idiot.

Yes, thought Wrath, still inexplicably furious as the train began to pull out of the station. He would be very happy to see the last of Envy.

* * *

Glad though he was to be free of Wrath's annoying company, Envy sighed at his surroundings. Asbec was a crap-hole. The village served as a transport hub for the local lumber industry, and its train station was in the center of a shabby warehouse district that reeked of sawdust and rotting wood.

Oh well. At least he would get to kill some humans, which was always fun. And chimeras, which would be novel. The only ones he would need to leave alive were the Elric brat and Marcoh.

He wandered among the warehouses to the east of the train platform. He was supposed to meet his contact, a chimera named Zampano, somewhere around here. That imbecile actually believed his own life would be spared, and that he would even get a reward, in return for betraying his companions. The homunculus had to stifle a snicker at the thought. Oh, the look on his face would be so—

"Hello, Envy."

Envy whipped around, startled, to find Wrath standing behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "Aren't you supposed to be on the train?"

He was wearing that infuriating smirk. "I'll catch up with the train. It's a lot slower than I am. But first, you and I have business." He was holding his sword, twirling it aimlessly.

"What the hell are you talking about? What business?" Envy circled him warily. He didn't like this. With an odd feeling that he might need an exit, he eyed their surroundings, looking for the easiest way out.

"That human you killed awhile back. Hughes. I've decided it doesn't sit well with me, after all." The sword continued to twirl.

"That idiot in the phone booth—seriously? Why do you suddenly care about him?" Envy was incredulous. This incarnation of Wrath must be defective; there was no other explanation.

Wrath shrugged. "I don't care, really. Just another dead human. But for some reason, the fact that you killed him just pisses me off." He had stopped twirling his sword, and he was no longer smiling. "_A lot_."

Envy had seen enough. He bolted, but there was a blur of movement, and Wrath blocked his way. He tried running in another direction, then a third, but whichever way he turned, Wrath was there. He skidded to a stop and put his hands up.

He was seething, but managed a humble smile. "OK, Wrath. You've had your fun, making me run around like an idiot. What do you really want from me?" Oh, Wrath would pay for this later, he would make sure. Looking down on him like this!

But Wrath merely smiled. With another blur of motion and a burst of intense pain, Envy felt his head fall cleanly off his shoulders.

There was a flash of red light as he regenerated. "_Wrath!"_ Envy shouted. "_What the fu—_" And it happened again.

This time, when he regenerated, he backed up and expanded into his ultimate form: a huge, green, eight-legged beast with a massive tail, every surface of his body bursting with the agonized remnants of the humans who fueled his Philosopher's Stone. "You asked for this, Wrath," he menaced. "I really can't hold back in this form. Don't blame me when you get torn to shreds!"

He pounced at Wrath, but was too slow to hit him. Instead, Wrath dodged the attack and leapt onto Envy's back, thrusting his sword in deeply and dragging it as he ran along the beast's length, before diving off the other end and skidding to a stop, nimbly avoiding being struck by the tail. Envy moaned, then stumbled and collapsed. The pain was incredible.

"I can't believe you made yourself a bigger target," Wrath mocked. "You really thought bigger would be better? You're even slower in this form!"

Envy regenerated again, this time into his usual adolescent shape. His anger now colored by genuine fear, he dove for a pile of crates, throwing them behind him at Wrath as a diversion, and bolted around the side of the nearest warehouse. He needed to think. He couldn't beat Wrath on speed or fighting ability. What was his weakness?

Wrath flew around the corner after Envy, grabbed him by the collar and turned him around. "Yo, Roy," said Envy, now wearing the form of Maes Hughes. "What's up?" Wrath decapitated him without a word.

"Hey!" protested Envy, once his head had regenerated. "You care so much about that guy, but you kill him just like that?" He bolted again, this time using the warehouse wall to launch himself upwards to the roof, intending to escape by running along its length.

When he reached the rooftop, Wrath was already blocking his path, smirking. "I told you, he means nothing to me. This fight is between you and me. And you piss me off no matter what you look like." He swung his blade, and Envy's head left its shoulders again. "Your Philosopher's Stone is getting low, by the way." He kicked the headless body back to the ground, following it down with a graceful leap.

"Father will give me a new one," spat Envy as he regenerated. He was growing numb to the pain. "All right, I know someone you _do_ care about," he taunted, and transformed himself into a copy of Riza Hawkeye. "Your human pet."

"Even easier," grinned Wrath. "She pisses me off all the time!" The sword swung again, and Riza's head came off.

Envy regenerated back into his adolescent form, but it was one decapitation too many, and his Philosopher's Stone was depleted. Slowly, from the inside out, his body was collapsing into ash. "No, no, NO!" he screamed. "This can't be happening! Not to me!" As his face disintegrated, a small green figure burst out of the forehead and fell to the ground.

The tiny, grotesque creature—Envy in his original form—crawled feebly on eight legs, barely able to hold up his bulbous head and enormous eyes, dragging his long tail behind him. "Dammit!" he cried, his voice now tiny and high-pitched. "Don't look at me. How dare you look down on me, you pathetic half-human freak!"

Wrath was indeed looking down on him, if only because of their relative heights. His face was impassive. "I'm getting bored, Envy."

"Fine," the little creature sighed. "You win, Wrath. I'm sorry I killed your stupid human. Can I go now? Father will fix me up, and we'll forget all about it. OK?" Envy had no intention of forgetting—Wrath would pay dearly for this—but he would say anything to make the torment stop.

"I'm not quite finished," said Wrath nonchalantly, and brought the sword down on Envy's small body, cutting it cleanly in half. "There, I feel much better now," he added pleasantly, as the last pieces of the homunculus disintegrated into dust.

Wrath replaced his sword in its scabbard, then turned and headed back toward the train tracks, smiling to himself. There would be grave consequences if Father found out what he had done, but he was confident that wouldn't happen. After all, Envy had been on his way to confront a dangerous group of dissidents, who had some powerful alchemists among them. Anything at all might have happened to him. And Wrath had been on the train this whole time.


	17. Northern Defenses

Chapter 17: Northern Defenses

"Look, I'm just telling you what I saw," repeated Zampano, the chimera who had been posing as the homunculi's informant, to the rest of the group. They were gathered around a campfire next to the shanty where they had taken refuge in the Ishvalan slum outside Asbec. "There were two homunculi at the train station. They had an argument about some guy named Hughes, and the one who's Führer President killed the other one. The little guy—Envy. Then he took off. I was hiding, and he never saw me. That's all I know."

"Hughes…" echoed Winry, stunned. "He was our friend. And Colonel Mustang's, too."

"He was murdered by the homunculi," Alphonse explained to the others soberly. "Envy must have been the one who killed him. Since Wrath has the Colonel's memories, I guess he decided to take revenge." He shook his head. This was too much to take in right now. For the thousandth time, he wished that Edward were here with them. He at least hoped his brother was safe, wherever he was.

"Dissention among the homunculi is good for us," observed Scar. His voice was as emotionless as always, his expression inscrutable. "Now we have one less opponent to worry about. Unfortunately, it also means our plan to trap a homunculus has failed."

"So now what?" asked May, the young Xingese alchemist. "Do we contact the homunculi again, and ask them to send someone else? Or do we give up, and move on to the next part of the plan?"

"Giving up sounds like a fine idea!" countered Yoki, whom no one acknowledged. Scar's lackey, the only member of their party besides Winry who was neither an alchemist nor a chimera, was frightened of virtually everything. He remained with the group only because he was more afraid of what Scar would do to him if he left.

"The only way we have to contact them is through the Führer President's office," argued Jerso, the other chimera in their group. "If Wrath figures out that we know, he might decide to come back and kill all the witnesses."

"And we don't want to fight that guy," added Zampano. "We might have been able to handle Envy, but Wrath is too scary."

"But Wrath is headed north," Dr. Marcoh pointed out. "He's not in Central. Someone else will be monitoring his phone line."

"We can't tell them what Zampano saw," Alphonse insisted. "If the other homunculi find out what Wrath did, they might kill him." Scar and Yoki both shrugged. "_Listen_," Alphonse continued firmly. "If Wrath killed Envy, he might be on our side now. But even if he isn't, the Colonel is our friend, and I won't let you hurt him." He drew his armored body up taller and gave Scar his fiercest glare, which he hoped made him look tough. Or was at least recognizable as a glare.

Scar scowled, but didn't press the argument. "Very well. We will not tell the homunculi what Zampano has seen. But we _will_ call them, and tell them that our contact hasn't shown up for reasons unknown to us. And we will try our plan again, with whatever homunculus they send us."

"But what if they think we did it?" gulped Yoki. "And what if they send two of them again?"

"If they send two homunculi, then we will deal with them both," Scar said smoothly. "Are we agreed?" There was a round of nods.

* * *

It was past nightfall as Wrath stepped through the massive double doors leading into the Briggs fortress, ushered in by a blast of freezing wind carrying flecks of sleet. He was grateful to be indoors. The interior of the fortress was hardly warm, but it offered at least some shelter from the outdoors' bitter cold.

While his new younger body was an improvement over the old one in most ways, he reflected, it was surprisingly sensitive to the cold. There was a reason Mustang habitually wore his long black overcoat draped over his shoulders; rather than a style affectation, it was actually for warmth. (Well all right, it was _mostly_ for warmth.) But while it kept him warm enough in Central City's temperate climate, it was no match for the North's howling chill. Now Wrath brushed wet snow off the coat with an irritated expression, as he tried not to let his men see him shiver.

"Führer President, sir!" the officer waiting to greet him barked with a crisp salute, looking flummoxed. The Briggs forces had been caught off guard by this unannounced presidential visit, as intended. "I apologize, sir—we had no idea you were coming personally! If we'd known, Major General Armstrong would have been here to greet you herself." He hid it well, but Wrath could see that he was alarmed by the turn of events.

"No need to worry, Major…Miles, is it? You may escort me to your commanding officer now." The major nodded and began leading the way through the wide, drafty corridors.

Wrath studied the man's appearance as they walked. He was olive-skinned, with white hair, and oddly wearing sunglasses in violation of uniform protocol. There was no doubt: his facial features were definitely Ishvalan, or at least partly so. The sunglasses must have been designed to hide his telltale red eyes. However he had managed to escape being rounded up during the Ishvalan War—perhaps, despite his appearance, the percentage of ancestry was too low—his loyalty to the military was obviously suspect, and he should have been dismissed long ago. Yet Armstrong had not only let him remain in her army, but had appointed him as her aide. She was an intriguing woman.

They had reached the door to her office. "Major General Armstrong, sir! The Führer President has honored us with a personal visit," Miles barked nervously.

The Briggs commanding officer looked up sharply from behind her massive oak desk. Wrath saw her raise one eyebrow in response, the only hint of surprise. She inclined her head at Miles, who took it as a dismissal and disappeared. Then she stood and approached Wrath, standing in crisp salute. "This is indeed an unexpected honor, Your Excellency," she declared.

The woman exuded confidence: her shoulders were square, her spine straight, her pulse and breathing steady. Despite this toughness—or perhaps enhanced by it—she was a beautiful woman, with piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones framed by blonde hair that swept down to her shoulders, all of which Wrath found quite distracting. But he was here on important business, so he forced his attention back to the matter at hand. He returned her salute with a smirk, then casually circled behind her desk and took the chair for himself, leaving her standing. "I understand that you've been very busy, Major General," he began. "So I'll get right to the point. I want an explanation for General Raven's disappearance. What did you do to him?"

"Your Excellency," she replied. Her speech was clipped and formal, a product of her aristocratic upbringing, but her words dripped with contempt. "Why would you allow a spineless, careless idiot like Raven into your trust? You have no need for men like him. Brainless yes-men with loose lips won't do anything to advance your cause."

His eyebrows shot up. She was taking a huge gamble, speaking to him like this, but she showed no sign of fear. "I see. So you had him killed?"

"I took care of it personally. If you'd like, I can excavate the body. It's buried deep in the fort, along with my own bloodstained gloves." How refreshing to deal with a human who was so fearless, and so emotionally controlled, Wrath reflected with surprise. It made it easy to tell whether she was lying. Thus far, she had only spoken the truth.

"What did Raven tell you?"

"About immortality. The future of our country. The homunculi. And your true identity." Still no fear, but now he saw the first hints of deception. Most likely the Elrics had given her some of that information. "He revealed it all without my even asking," Armstrong added.

"And yet knowing all this, you remained at your post in the military," observed Wrath, "and you're looking me in the eye with no sign of fear."

"Yes, sir. Let me have the seat that fool was occupying. I will serve you far better than he will." Now she was lying outright; she had no intention of joining his cause. _Got you, Armstrong._

But instead of calling her on her deception, he merely laughed. "I could execute you right now for your actions, Major General. But I think you could be a useful part of my operations." It was his turn to lie. "Very well, you may have your seat. We'll return to Central first thing in the morning. And in exchange, control of Briggs will be given to my own officers."

"As you wish," she responded without hesitation. "They're all exemplary soldiers that I've trained personally. And they're yours to command." More dishonesty. His men would need to watch their backs, clearly.

There was something else. Wrath folded his arms, eying her intently. "But you haven't told me everything, have you, Major General? I can see that you have more to say, but you're holding back."

Now she stiffened. "The only thing I've held back is my opinion, Your Excellency. And I will continue to hold my tongue in that regard, lest my comments earn me a court martial."

"I demand honesty from those who serve me, Major General. As you said, I am ill-served by yes-men. You may speak freely."

There was a pause. "Very well," Armstrong said tersely. "Then I will hold nothing back." She took a breath. "Tell me, Your Excellency, how did a man like you get chosen to inherit the Wrath homunculus and take over as Führer President at _the age of 29?_ Hand-picked by Bradley himself, they say. What special service did you perform to earn such esteem? Something the other men were unwilling to provide, undoubtedly?" She stared at him fully, not a trace of fear evident.

Wrath gritted his teeth. He knew what she was insinuating, and he was being insulted twice, as both Bradley and Mustang. He clamped down on the urge to kill her then and there—he did not want to deal with a full-scale revolt from her army, after all—and instead mustered his most charming smile. "I can assure you, Major General, that I achieved my position through military merit alone. But one might ask the same question of you. It has escaped no one's notice that you're the only woman in the Amestrian military to have achieved such a high rank, and be given her own command. Perhaps you performed some special services of your own along the way?" No such impropriety had taken place; she was a formidable commander who had earned her position, and he had approved her appointment personally. But it was too much fun to toy with her.

Armstrong's face tightened into a snarl, her hand twitching nearly imperceptibly in the direction of her sword hilt. "Or perhaps we should discontinue this conversation, before an argument ensues," Wrath continued smoothly.

"I think that would be a very good idea, Your Excellency," she growled in agreement.

His lips wore a smirk. "Our train leaves very early in the morning, Major General, so I suggest that you get some sleep." He stood and strode for the door as the woman fumed, her eyes burning holes into the back of his head. What a magnificent creature she was. How enjoyable it would be to take her to his bed, he mused, although it would definitely be against her will. Surely his human host wouldn't interfere, since he had no personal attachment in this case...but Wrath's head immediately began to swim with conflicting emotions, so he backed off from the thought. Damn Mustang and his infuriating morality!

Perhaps it was just as well, Wrath sighed inwardly as he rejoined his men and headed back down the corridor. His life was complicated enough as it was. The last thing he needed was this icy, aggressive blonde, who would fight against his advances and undoubtedly try to kill him the first moment he dropped his guard. After all, he already had one of those at home.

* * *

Wrath's investigation of Briggs yielded no clues to the whereabouts of the Elrics or the other traitors, as expected. In the morning, he secured Armstrong under the watchful eyes of his honor guard, made arrangements for General Radcliffe to take command of the northern fortress, and headed home. The train ride back to Central was uneventful. He installed the Major General in her own compartment, the better to avoid his own temptation. She exhibited no suspicious behavior, and there were no security incidents during the trip.

When they arrived back at Central City, he ordered his men to escort her home to the Armstrong family estate. Now that she was removed from the support of her army, he could execute her at his leisure, but he decided to allow her to move more or less freely for the time being. His agents would continue to watch her covertly; if she was plotting against him, he wanted to see who she was meeting with.

Since it was customary for the homunculi to check in immediately following a mission outside of the city, Wrath headed next to see Father. He felt a stab of apprehension. Now he would learn whether his "family" knew what he had done to Envy. If they did, he had no doubt that he would be given the same treatment as Greed: his human host would be terminated, his Philosopher's Stone would be reabsorbed into Father, and his memories would be wiped before he was implanted in the next body. His mouth twitched in an ironic smile as he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He rather enjoyed being Roy Mustang.

He strode into the chamber to find a conference in progress. Pride, Lust, Greed, and Gluttony were all present, standing in attendance around Father in his throne. "What's going on?" Wrath asked casually, ignoring the anxious clutch in his stomach. "Why are you all here?"

"We're hoping you can tell us, Wrath," Pride glowered at him, his small arms folded. "Envy hasn't reported in. He's missing."

"What? For how long?" Wrath asked, with a feigned innocence worthy of Riza. "I saw him get off the train in Asbec yesterday morning. He was on his way to meet his contact. The chimera."

"The chimera called us back last night, asking where Envy was," Lust said tersely. "He said he never showed up for their meeting." They were all staring at him questioningly.

With deliberate casualness, Wrath shrugged. "Then they have him, obviously," he replied smoothly. "These are associates of the Elrics, remember? They already captured Gluttony once. It wouldn't have been that much harder to trap Envy."

There was silence. "Then why would they call us?" asked Lust after a few moments, her eyes narrowed skeptically. "Why call attention to themselves?"

"Maybe they wanted to throw off suspicion. Or maybe they think they can do it again. Did the informant ask for another meeting?"

"They did," Pride confirmed coldly. His arms remained folded, his lips pursed in an unhappy line.

"The annoying kid in my body doesn't think they'd be that reckless," Greed volunteered, wearing his usual arrogant grin. "But he's on their side, so he's probably lying. After all, he helped them catch Gluttony."

"Those people are mean!" blurted Gluttony, whom everyone ignored.

"They have at least two state-class alchemists, plus Scar. Frankly, we shouldn't have sent Envy by himself," Wrath added, with a pointed glare at Pride. "In retrospect."

"The Elrics were _your_ responsibility, Wrath," Pride snapped angrily. "_You_ were supposed to keep them under control!"

"And whose decision was it to send Kimblee after them, Pride? I warned you—"

"_Stop_," boomed Father, who had been watching silently from his pedestal up until now. "I will not have my children argue." The homunculi, now quiet, waited respectfully as he drew himself to a standing position. "I have decided. Lust. Gluttony. You will travel to Asbec to retrieve Envy. Bring our potential human sacrifices back to Central, and eliminate the other captors. Ensure that their arrogance is punished."

"Yes, Father," replied Lust. She offered him an elegant bow, and Gluttony managed a lurching half-dip, before they withdrew. "The rest of you, resume your duties as before," Father continued. "See that there are no additional failures."

The three remaining homunculi bowed and turned to leave. Greed still wore his indifferent grin, while Pride shot Wrath a withering glare of indignation, which he ignored.

As Wrath exited the chamber and headed for home, he discreetly let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. If any of the other homunculi had possessed his supernatural vision, they would have been able to see that he was lying—but they hadn't. Lust and Gluttony's rescue mission would turn up empty, of course, and there was still a possibility that they would figure out the truth eventually. He would deal with that when it happened, if it happened. But so far, he thought to himself with a smirk, he had gotten away with it.


	18. The Trap

Chapter 18: The Trap

The chimera was already waiting for them as the train pulled into Asbec's tiny station, Lust saw through the window, recognizing him from his file photo. He hadn't spotted them yet. "Stay down," she told Gluttony, who was obediently crouching below window level. "I want him to think I'm the only one here. Stay in this compartment until we walk away, then follow us at a distance. Don't let anyone see you—all right?"

"Yes, Lust," he burbled in his childlike voice. "When can I eat the chimera?"

"Not until I tell you. He has to lead us to the others first."

"Then I can eat him? And that Ishvalan, too?"

"Yes, but not until I tell you," she repeated patiently. Although he could be trying at times, she had a much higher tolerance for Gluttony than any of her siblings did. "Unless they become a threat. You can eat anyone who attacks us, as long as it's not our human sacrifices. Understood?" He nodded glumly, his simple mind bewildered by all these complicated rules. "There's a good boy," she said, patting him on the head.

"I smell something funny," he added as she stood up to leave. "Something dead. Like meat." Lust peered out of the window. There was an outdoor market nearby, and she spotted at least one butcher's stall, its wares hanging in the open air. No need to refrigerate meat in this cold climate, she supposed. "It's just the humans' food," she told him. "And no, you can't eat that either."

She ignored Gluttony's pouting and gathered up the sole accessory she had brought with her, a rough Ishvalan-style cloak long enough to cover her black gown, which she wound around herself as she left their compartment. A most distasteful garment. This northern climate positively cried out for fur—how she would prefer its softness against her skin, and the way it would flatter her appearance. When the current business was finished and she no longer needed to wear her Ishvalan disguise, she would definitely have to procure some. Maybe enough to cover her whole bed. Surely Wrath would enjoy that as much she would, she thought with pleasure as she stepped out onto the platform.

Lust approached the chimera. "You are Zampano?"

"That's me," he replied, seeming taken aback. She had left the hood of the cloak down, showing her face. "I…wasn't expecting them to send a woman," he mumbled nervously. "Uh, is it just you?"

"Just me," she purred, giving him a charming smile. "And now, you will escort me to your associates' camp."

"Sure," he replied, "but first, what about my reward? I was promised—"

"You'll get everything you're entitled to," she cut in pleasantly. "But not until you've fulfilled your end of the bargain."

"But…well, OK," he sighed, his shoulders slumping resignedly. If this was an act, he was certainly playing it up. "This way, then."

At his direction, they walked along a narrow footpath through the nearby hills, which were blanketed with newly-fallen snow. Very picturesque. She kept a watchful eye for traps and ambush points along the way. Gluttony would be trailing behind them at a discreet distance; while he was easily confused and distracted, he was highly protective of his beloved sister, so she knew he would follow that order obediently. The chimera was silent, but Lust noticed with approval that he kept stealing looks at her. She casually allowed the cloak to fall to her shoulders, giving him a better look at her cleavage, and grinned inwardly at how flustered it made him. One last thrill for the poor doomed man. She wasn't heartless, after all.

In the meantime, she reflected as they walked, she had her own needs to consider. According to their intel, they would need to capture two prisoners, both alchemists, and kill six others, mostly alchemists or chimeras. But between herself and Gluttony—plus Envy, once they freed him, if he was in fact here—they should have no trouble rounding them up. And that ought to leave her enough freedom to keep one of the targets as a plaything.

Lust reviewed her options. Marcoh was too old to be of any interest, of course. The other humans included a simpering weakling with a mustache (no), a fifteen-year-old girl (no), a ten-year-old girl (definitely no), a fourteen-year-old boy inhabiting a sexless suit of armor (what would she even do with that?), and Scar (hmm). Her memory lingered over the Ishvalan assassin's body. Definitely appetizing, but he would also be the most troublesome. His right arm was tattooed with a powerful alchemy array that would allow him to destroy anything with a touch—including her homunculus flesh, and possibly even her Philosopher's Stone. She would have to cut the arm off first, which would be unattractive, and would probably result in him bleeding to death long before she was finished with him.

That left only the two chimeras. But neither of them was particularly easy on the eyes in human form; and in chimera form, one transformed into a hedgehog and the other a toad. Not at all appealing. (Why couldn't it be something pretty, like a lion? Wasn't there one of those running around somewhere?) Lust sighed. She supposed she would just have to cut Scar's arm off and make do.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the camp, a collection of ragged wooden shanties dotted with outdoor cooking fires. The ugly trappings of poverty. A few stands of trees surrounded the clearing, and Lust could see Marcoh and the second chimera, Jerso, gathering wood near one of them. A short distance away, she spotted Alphonse Elric and the young Xingese girl crouched inside one of the shanties, watching them; that was certainly suspicious. The two ordinary humans were absent, perhaps having been sent away somewhere safe. And Scar was missing. No doubt he was lurking somewhere nearby—but unfortunately for him, so was Gluttony, who would sniff him out before he had a chance to attack. And that would probably be the end of her toy, she thought resignedly.

"Hey, guys!" the chimera called to Marcoh and Jerso as they walked up. By now Lust had rearranged her cloak so that it shrouded her completely, even her face. "This lady needs the doctor to take a look at something."

"It's all right, Zampano," Lust interrupted. "You can drop the act now." She tossed aside her cloak with a dramatic flourish, revealing both her face and the ouroboros mark on her chest. "Hello, Marcoh," she purred, waiting with relish for the look of horror to cross his face. "Did you really think we wouldn't find you?" But Marcoh's expression remained strangely impassive. In fact, none of the targets looked particularly surprised to see her, and now Zampano had abruptly run away from her side and rejoined his friends. "_Now_ I can drop the act," he called back to her.

So Wrath's theory had been correct—it was indeed a trap, or at least an attempt at one. Pathetic fools. Did they really think she would be as easy to overpower as Envy? She addressed the group as a whole, turning to make sure that Alphonse and the Xingese girl could hear. "You are all going to die," she informed them smoothly. "It is not a question of if, but when and how, and what I do to pleasure myself with you first. If you wish your deaths to be quick and painless, then you will tell me what you've done with Envy, and you will tell me now."

The humans and chimeras were all looking at one another. "So you really don't know?" asked Zampano after a few moments. "It wasn't us that killed him. It was one of you. The Führer President—Wrath, I guess."

It took a moment for his words to register. Envy...killed? And by _Wrath?_ Lust was overtaken by a sudden feeling of unreality, as if she were watching and hearing the scene from a distance. No—what he was describing was impossible. It was obviously a trick. "Enough of your lies, you pathetic insects!" she hissed. "_Where is Envy?_"

Silence. They were all staring at her. "It's the truth," Zampano insisted. "Wrath killed him by one of the warehouses near the train station. I saw it happen. Said it was revenge for some guy named Hughes. He kept chopping the little guy's head off, but it kept growing back, until finally he turned into dust. Then a little green thing crawled out, and Wrath sliced it in half."

No. No. _No!_ Horror was sinking in: the scene he had described would only be known to someone who had witnessed a homunculus' death. And they couldn't have known that Envy was Hughes' killer—but Wrath did. The chimera was telling the truth. Lust was struck speechless with rage and shock.

But she would come to terms with Wrath's betrayal later. Right now, at this moment, all she wanted was for her targets to suffer and die. She extended her fingernails into blades and lunged toward the chimera. And then the ground beneath her exploded.

She landed in the snow amid pain and a flash of regeneration. Furious, she climbed to her feet. How dare these execrable creatures—! How were they using alchemy from a distance? More importantly, where was Gluttony?! He must be dealing with Scar somewhere back in the hills, she realized.

"I've placed transmutation circles that act as land mines," volunteered Marcoh. "They're designed to react only to homunculi."

"Then you die first," Lust snapped icily. This time she lunged at Marcoh, retracing her previous footprints to avoid triggering any more mines—only to be thrown by another explosion. She barely felt the pain, barely noticed the red crackle of regeneration as she stood again, her mind a blur of fury and grief.

Now she remained absolutely still. If these alchemy mines, or whatever they truly were, were triggered by her footsteps, then she would have to stay where she was. She eyed her targets one by one. Marcoh, several feet from her, was closest—good. In an abrupt motion, she shot out the fingernails of her left hand, skewered him in the shoulder, and yanked him into her grasp.

She pressed the bladed fingernails of her right hand against his throat. "Back off, or I will slit his throat in an instant," she warned the others. They did as they were told, with expressions turned suddenly fearful. At last. "And as for you, Marcoh, you were warned that if you resisted us, there would be a price," she purred. "Rest assured, that little village you're so fond of will be destroyed." There, finally, was the look of horror she had wanted. She would make him watch the village die, she decided, and she would savor every moment of his torment.

Marcoh, pain and fear painting his battered face, was futilely struggling to escape her grip. "I've been the military's dog for years," he was muttering. "Caving into their threats, living in fear. Sacrificing so many human lives to make Philosopher's Stones at their command—"

"Be quiet," snapped Lust, as she eyed each of her adversaries, evaluating the threat they posed. She could handle the two chimeras easily, but there was still Alphonse Elric, and what exactly was that little Xingese girl up to? _Now would be a good time to appear, Gluttony... _

Marcoh was still muttering and struggling in her arms. "—and when you learn how to make something," he continued, his voice growing suddenly louder and more determined, "_you also learn how to destroy it!_" He shifted abruptly in Lust's grip and slammed the palm of his right hand against her stomach.

She was seized with searing pain, as the air around her was engulfed in a huge ball of blue lightning. The pain was incredible, like nothing she'd ever felt. Her body was paralyzed. She couldn't run, couldn't fight back, couldn't even scream—she could only suffer the agony and her own impotent rage. And it wasn't stopping! It continued on and on, as Lust's eyes fixed an unwilling stare on Marcoh's maniacal face.

It continued for what must have been several minutes. Then finally, both the pain and the lightning began to diminish in intensity. _He's weakening_, she thought hazily. _As soon as I can move, I'll—_but the thought was interrupted as she felt her body begin to collapse in on itself. _No, no, no!_ She realized with shock that he had managed to deplete her Philosopher's Stone. She was crumbling. Marcoh released his alchemical grip and stood back, wearing a look of grim satisfaction as her body crumpled into ashes. _Am I dying?_ she wondered in terror as she fell. _Is this what it felt like, Envy?_

No—she wasn't dead yet. Slowly, painfully, Lust extricated herself from the disintegrating body. Her original form, her host, was still intact: a small flesh-colored creature that resembled an ancient Xerxian fertility doll, with stubby limbs and exaggerated sex organs; a tiny, ugly thing created in one of Father's laboratories. "Don't look at me!" she shouted at the humans and chimeras who moved in to surround her, her voice now tiny and high-pitched. "Don't touch me!" she screamed as Zampano leaned down and picked her up. She slashed at him with her miniature claws, but he avoided injury by dangling her by one leg. A glass jar was produced, and she was unceremoniously dropped and sealed inside it.

Marcoh had collapsed on the ground in exhaustion, and her jar was left perched on a tree stump as the others tended to him. They helped him sit up, offering congratulations, ignoring Lust as she hurled threats and curses at them in her tiny, ridiculous voice. _Fools!_ Gluttony was still out there, and as soon as he finished disposing of Scar, they would all pay…

But from her perch, Lust watched as a vehicle approached their clearing. A slum-dweller's battered pickup truck, it stopped long enough to drop off a passenger, then sped off. Her heart sank as she saw that it was Scar, still unharmed. No matter, she reassured herself; Gluttony wasn't fast enough to overtake a truck, but he would be following closely behind, tracking the Ishvalan's scent. No one eluded Gluttony.

Scar spared only a glance at Lust, then addressed Marcoh and the others. "I see that you were successful," he said, in a voice devoid of emotion.

"Do you really think you can hold me?" Lust interrupted him in her high-pitched voice. "I'm not alone. Gluttony is coming for me, and you are all going to die. I will take exquisite pleasure from your dying bodies, and then he will eat you—"

But she trailed off as she took in Scar's appearance. He was dressed in some kind of odd fur cloak—no, she realized, it was a wolf's skin. A freshly killed one, so fresh that its blood was running down his clothing. Horror dawned anew as she grasped its significance. _I smell something funny_, Gluttony had told her at the train station._ Something dead, like meat._ The Ishvalan had disguised his scent, and evaded Gluttony's detection.

"I caught the other homunculus by surprise, as we planned," Scar continued addressing the group, ignoring Lust. "He's been taken care of."

So this piece of human trash had managed to trap Gluttony too—! Well, no matter. "And how long do think you can hold him?" Lust taunted, although the swagger was starting to slip from her voice. "You people tried to capture him once before, and look how far it got you!"

Scar's shrouded gaze turned to look down at her jar. "You misunderstand," he replied indifferently. "We only needed to test Marcoh's ability on one of you. I didn't capture him. I destroyed him."

Lust felt her small, stubby legs give way under her. None of this could be happening. Gluttony, dead…Envy, dead…Wrath, a murderous traitor…and herself, captured, humiliated, and at the mercy of these primitive beasts.

In 250 years of existence, never before had she felt like this. Frightened. Helpless. Insignificant. Trapped within her glass prison, she opened her tiny mouth and screamed.

* * *

"There are two parts to every homunculus," Marcoh explained to Alphonse a short while later, as they sat peering together into the jar. By now the small creature inside had stopped screaming, and instead lay curled up into a ball, seeming dazed. "There's a host—either a human, or as in this case, an animal created in an alchemy lab. And there's the Philosopher's Stone, which holds their consciousness and provides them with their strength. If you use enough power, it's possible to destroy both parts at once. But I targeted only the Philosopher's Stone, leaving the host intact. And I didn't destroy the whole stone, so Lust is still alive, just extremely weakened. I thought she might be more useful that way."

"Dr. Marcoh," asked Alphonse, trying to keep the excitement from his voice, "what would happen if you destroyed the entire Philosopher's Stone? Would it leave just the host alive?"

"In this case, probably not. Whatever rudimentary consciousness this animal had when it was created, it was probably absorbed by Lust as soon as her Philosopher's Stone was implanted. If I killed Lust, the host's body might live for a short while, but it would be an empty shell." He paused. "But you aren't thinking of this creature, are you? You're thinking of Colonel Mustang." Alphonse nodded quickly.

Marcoh paused a moment before replying. "The answer is yes," he said. "If Roy Mustang still exists as an independent human soul, then destroying Wrath should leave him alive, with his body intact."

"So we can save him!" Alphonse grinned and let out a long sigh of relief. "Dr. Marcoh, we need to get back to Central right away!"

"No." Scar had been standing quietly nearby, listening in. "We do not have the time to travel to Central City. And we cannot take the risk of confronting Wrath now. Have you forgotten the matter of the nationwide human transmutation circle? We need to begin constructing a counter-circle, which will take several months, and will require the alchemical knowledge of both you and Marcoh. We've delayed as long as we can afford."

"But this is important too!" protested Alphonse. "The Colonel can help us with the circle—"

"Possibly. And only _if _Marcoh can save him. But that is by no means certain, is it, Doctor?"

Marcoh was staring at the ground, frowning. "That's correct. If he's already been fully absorbed by Wrath, then my technique will kill both of them. And that's assuming we can even get close enough to try, without getting captured or killed." He sighed and passed his hand over his eyes, then met Alphonse's gaze. "Scar's right. We already don't know whether we can finish the counter-circle in time. It was worth waiting a couple of days for a shot at the homunculi who came to us, but now that we know how to fight them…" He trailed off, regret in his eyes. "I want to save Mustang too, Alphonse, believe me. But there are 50 million people in this country. And I don't think he would want us to risk their lives for his sake."

"We can put it to a vote of the others if you'd like," Scar continued smoothly. "Although I suspect I know what the answer will be."

Now it was Alphonse's turn to stare at the ground, his hands balled into fists. This was one of the rare times he was glad of not having his human body; if he did, he knew his eyes would be filling with tears of frustration. "There's no need to take a vote, Scar," he responded slowly, hearing his voice quaver. "I don't like this at all. But I know that you're both right."

Scar nodded. "Then as soon as we've finished gathering supplies, we will head for Liore, as originally planned." He turned and strode away. Marcoh stood, patting Alphonse awkwardly on the shoulder before lifting the jar and following.

Alphonse continued staring at the ground. "You'll have to hang on a little longer, Colonel," he whispered. "We'll come and save you from Wrath. I promise. But—I just don't know when."


	19. Alliance

Chapter 19: Alliance

Hawkeye's visit with her grandfather had been all too brief. Wrath had allowed her to spend only one night in East City, under the watchful eyes of bodyguards Harris and Jameson, who had escorted her back onto a train to Central early the next morning (for her own "safety," of course). Wrath had arrived home from the North on the same day, and they had quickly settled back into their usual routine.

The following Wednesday found her conducting her normal shopping errands. While Vanessa spun her usual sales pitch to the bodyguards, and a pair of distractingly attractive and scantily-dressed customers browsed nearby, Hawkeye set aside her latest pile of dresses and pushed her way through the secret door in dressing room #2.

Havoc was waiting. "Welcome back, Boss," he grinned. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm doing all right," she said cheerfully, and extended her hand for a handshake, which he accepted with a puzzled expression. From the topmost dress in her pile, she had discreetly removed the price tag and the straight pin that had attached it. "Don't make a sound," she murmured, as she grabbed Havoc's wrist and stabbed the back of his hand with the pin.

He stifled a yell as he snapped his hand back. "Ow! What the hell was that for?" he mumbled, shaking his hand to dispel the pain.

"Sorry. I'm checking to see if you regenerate. While I was gone, I met a homunculus who looked just like you."

"Must have been a handsome devil, then," he muttered. He held up his hand to show her the drop of blood welling up from the wound. "But I'm just regular me."

"Good to know," she replied with a wry smile. "This homunculus—Envy—can take the form of anyone." Fair was fair; she used the pin to prick her own hand as she spoke, then held it up to show him the matching drop of blood. "So we'll have to be even more careful now. That is, if he's still even out there."

"I'd prefer using passwords to being stabbed every time we meet," he observed drily. "But what do you mean,_ if_ he's out there?"

"He's missing," she admitted. "No one's heard from him since he got off the train at Asbec. Lust and Gluttony were sent after him, but now they haven't reported back either." She smiled faintly. "The remaining homunculi are starting to worry."

Havoc let out a low whistle. "Sounds like the Elric brothers have been busy. Think they took care of the homunculi for us?"

Hawkeye shook her head. "I've got no idea. That would be the best-case scenario. I just hope they came out of it unscathed."

"So what's our next move?"

She frowned thoughtfully. "I think I'd like to have a talk with Major General Armstrong. She's had contact with the Elrics, and Wrath believes she's covering for them. He brought her back to Central to keep an eye on her. I want to find out what she knows, and what she intends to do about it."

"Hmm. If Wrath's watching her, then contacting her will be risky," Havoc considered. "But what the hell, I'm getting tired of sitting around waiting. I'll talk to Madam. If anyone can figure out how to get us in, it'll be her."

* * *

As luck would have it, Hawkeye didn't have long to wait. Her next stop after Vanessa's dress shop was Madeline's sandwich cart.

"Oh, one more thing," Madeline said cheerfully, handing Hawkeye an advertising flyer with her lunch. It was for a florist. "There's a lady who has a cart across the square. She has a large surplus of flowers this week, and she's selling them cheap. I promised her I'd pass the word around," the hostess added with a meaningful smile.

The flyer contained no coded messages, Hawkeye noted, scanning it carefully it while walking in the florist's direction, her bodyguards trailing behind. Someone outside their resistance circle wanted to contact her, then. But who? And how could she communicate with them in front of her guards? More importantly, how could she explain a sudden impulse to buy flowers, unusual behavior which would surely raise Wrath's suspicions? Particularly since he'd smashed all the vases in her room…

_Wait_, she chided herself. _I'm an idiot. _Of course she had a reason to buy flowers. She should have done so long before now, in fact. And now she knew exactly how to distance herself from the bodyguards.

"Excuse me," she said politely as she approached the florist, an older dark-skinned woman with white hair tied under a kerchief. "If I wanted to have a bouquet delivered to someone in East City, would you be able to arrange it?"

"Sure, ma'am, I know people all over. What's the occasion?"

"My grandfather was in an accident. He was…badly injured." Hawkeye allowed her eyes to well up with tears. "And the doctors say he might not be able to walk again." Now she began to cry in earnest, visibly overcome with emotion as she clumsily searched her pockets for a handkerchief. Tears were easy, the easiest thing in the world. They had been there, suppressed behind her forced smile and deliberately calm façade, since the day the Colonel had been taken and this nightmare had begun. It was merely a matter of letting them out.

Captain Harris offered her his handkerchief, and she took it gratefully. "Do you think you could give me a few minutes?" she asked softly. He nodded, and the guards withdrew some distance away, lingering in front of a nearby storefront where they could still see her.

"I understand, ma'am. I'll make sure your grandfather gets the best flowers," said the florist soothingly. "Let me show you our selection." She put a hand on Hawkeye's arm and gently ushered her around the displayed bouquets. "Did you know that flowers have a language all their own? Each one has its own meaning, and you can use them to send any message you want," the older woman continued as she guided them to the other side of the cart, out of the bodyguards' earshot.

Hawkeye finished drying her eyes. "I've heard that," she replied quietly, all business now. "And I'm very interested in hearing what message your flowers have for me."

The woman grinned. "You've heard of the 'Northern Wall of Briggs,' Major General Olivier Armstrong?" Hawkeye nodded cautiously. "She's made the acquaintance of some friends of yours, the Elric brothers. And she's seen some very strange and disturbing things happen since they arrived. Now she and her army are keenly interested in joining the fight."

Hawkeye broke into a guarded smile. If it could be trusted, this was extremely good news. "How can I get in touch with her?" she asked.

"You'll be contacted. It may take a few days, since she's being watched."

"Tell her I'll be waiting," Hawkeye replied. The bodyguards were beginning to drift back into view. "In the meantime, I'd still like to send those flowers. And if you could give my grandfather the same message that you gave me, that would extremely helpful." She scribbled General Grumman's name and hospital information on a piece of paper, then opened her wallet and pulled out several large bills, which the older woman seemed to find satisfactory as payment.

"I can do that. Any particular kind of flowers you'd like me to send?"

Hawkeye was about to say that the florist should pick something appropriate, since she knew nothing about the language of flowers herself. But then she recalled something she had heard as a little girl. "Yes," she answered, "something red."

"Ah," the older woman smiled sagely. "For determination and courage. An excellent choice for these perilous times."

* * *

The agents Wrath had assigned to watch Olivier Armstrong had plenty to keep them occupied. Her return to Central City had resulted in a well-publicized falling out with the rest of Armstrong family, culminating in a duel with her brother Alex to determine who would inherit control of the estate. The brawl had been so violent that it caused structural damage to the manor house. Olivier had won decisively, but the remaining family members had been so displeased with the outcome that they had immediately booked a lengthy overseas vacation, events which set the society pages of the local newspapers abuzz for a week.

Since the manor now required extensive repairs, the new mistress of the estate was taking advantage of the opportunity to completely remodel it to her liking. This resulted in a large number of construction workers, electricians, pipe fitters, woodworkers, stonecutters and landscapers ranging all over the property for up to sixteen hours each day. Recognizing that the activity would provide the perfect cover for Armstrong to meet covertly with fellow conspirators, Wrath's men had collected detailed files on each and every workman on the site, and were meticulously tracking their comings and goings. If anyone who didn't belong on the construction crew tried to slip in to meet with Armstrong, they would know.

Unfortunately for them, at the same time that the agents were keeping close tabs on the Armstrong manor, Madam Christmas and her people were keeping close tabs on the agents. It took only a few days to find the hole in their surveillance: they were so focused on tracking the huge transient workforce that they were virtually ignoring the regular staff, whom they had previously vetted and dismissed as no threat. As a result of this small oversight, Wrath's men failed to notice that on one particular Sunday, the tall brown-haired cook in his forties who normally reported for work each day was quietly replaced by an equally tall but much younger man, with a telltale head of red hair concealed under his chef's hat.

"I would have preferred to meet with Lieutenant Hawkeye herself," Armstrong informed Havoc curtly, glaring at him with cold disapproval. Her voice echoed off the polished marble columns framing the otherwise empty drawing room in which they were standing. "Or I suppose I should say, Lieutenant Mustang."

"We still call her Hawkeye, ma'am. She prefers it. And she wanted to come herself, but she doesn't have a lot of freedom to move on her own. The Führer keeps a pretty close eye on her." He smiled nervously, wishing he were anywhere else.

"I see. Marriage is an ugly business," Armstrong opined with a faint shudder. "She has authorized you to speak for her?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Armstrong sighed. "It will have to do. I remember that you served with Lieutenant Hawkeye during the last Joint Exercises, and that you performed competently. That is the only reason we are still having this conversation." She turned, her long blonde hair flowing slightly with the motion. "Walk with me, Havoc. We have much to discuss."

* * *

Late the following morning, as Wrath held a meeting with his senior generals, Hawkeye took the opportunity to take a quick break from the office. She didn't go far; she would be allowed to circulate without the supervision of her bodyguards only as long as she remained within the building. The women's restroom nearest to the Führer President's office was blocked by an "Out of Order" sign, but after pausing at the nearby drinking fountain long enough to make sure that no one else was in sight, she ignored the sign and walked through the door.

A pair of men's legs, clad in Building Maintenance coveralls, were sticking out from under the sink amid a halo of tools strewn on the floor. "Hey lady," barked a nasally male voice. "Can't you read? This place is out of order."

Her arms were folded. "Very funny, Havoc."

Havoc rolled out from under the sink with a grin, stood up and brushed himself off. "Sorry, Boss. I've been stuck in here since six A.M., bored out of my mind."

She was unable to suppress a smile. Her team members' antics could be annoying, but she missed them. "Nobody gave you any trouble?"

"Nope. This stuff Breda lifted for us worked like a charm," he noted, sweeping his arm to take in the uniform, tools, and sign. "Nobody looks twice at maintenance guys. Or cooks, for that matter."

"So you met with Armstrong last night, as planned?"

He nodded. "She knows everything. The Elrics filled her in on the homunculi and the Promised Day. And she plans to do something about it, with or without us. But she thinks we've got the best chance if we work together." He paused to take a breath. "She wants to form an alliance between the Northern and Eastern armies, and go up against the military. Her people have fantastic defensive capabilities, and we have the offense—she thinks we'll be unstoppable."

Hawkeye considered his words. "'Unstoppable' is an optimistic word under the circumstances, but otherwise I agree. The North and East armies together would be formidable," she said thoughtfully. Armstrong was talking about a full-scale revolt…it would take an incredible amount of planning, and luck, but with that much firepower, they might actually have a chance. The look in Havoc's eyes, hopeful for the first time in months, told her that he agreed. But with the hope, she could also see hesitation. "There's going to be a price, isn't there?" she asked.

He grimaced sourly. "She said she'll work with us, but she wants a guarantee that if the Führer position is vacant when this is over, she'll be the one to fill it. She figures the endorsement of the First Lady will carry a lot of weight."

Hawkeye frowned. _If the Führer position is vacant_ could only mean a scenario where they won the battle, but weren't able to save the Colonel. It was a possibility she didn't want to contemplate—but she did need to be realistic. If he died, someone would need to step in and take over the job of leading the nation. Armstrong was too martial for her liking, too likely to continue the aggressive policies that had led Amestris to frequent wars with its neighbors. If it came to that, Grumman would be a better choice. But First Lady or not, she was at a disadvantage as a mere lieutenant, lacking the bargaining power that someone of the Flame Alchemist's status would have had. And if they were to have any chance of surviving the Promised Day, they needed the Briggs forces' help badly.

"All right," she concluded grudgingly. "She's not my first choice, but we're not in a place where we can be choosy. Tell her that _if_ the position becomes vacant, we'll support her—but make it clear that we don't expect that to happen. Our intention is for the current Führer to remain alive and well.

"And Havoc—inform her that if she or her men attempt to create such a vacancy for _any _reason other than self-defense, the deal is off." She did have some leverage: if Armstrong went up against the Führer, she would need a cover story to exonerate herself from blame afterwards, and testimony of the First Lady could make or break that alibi. "Got it?"

"Understood." He looked uneasy. "I wish I wasn't the one who has to tell her, though. That woman is scary."

She smiled. "I have faith in you, Havoc. Just make sure she gets the message."


	20. Family Matters

Chapter 20: Family Matters

The Bradley estate was quiet tonight. Only a few windows were lit up with signs of occupation, and the pair of guards who patrolled outside appeared distracted and bored. Good, thought Greed, watching from the bushes where he crouched unseen. It would make things easier.

His teeth were clenched, and he could feel his whole body trembling with fury. He had never felt anything like it before. His mind flashed back, over and over, to the dead chimera he had held in his arms less than an hour before. The man had been a stranger, a nameless intruder Greed had casually killed while doing his assigned job, patrolling the conduits leading to Father's chamber. But the intruder hadn't been there to threaten Father. He'd come to see Greed. It had been his friend Bido, whose memory had been wiped from his mind—only to come flooding back after the man was dead, after it was far too late.

His mind was still sorting though a jumbled mass of memories, of faces and names and the feelings that went with them. Roa. Dolcetto. Ulchi. Martel. His loyal henchmen—and his friends. Wrath had killed them one by one, _stolen_ them from Greed. And then Father had changed him, wiped his memories (_stolen_ them!), and duped him into killing Bido. They had robbed Greed of his most treasured possessions, and now they were going to pay. He would start with Wrath.

He wanted nothing more than to crash through the front door of the Bradley estate, destroying everything that got in his way until he found his so-called brother. But he forced his mind to focus, remembering their fight in Father's chamber. Granted, the kid had been in control of his body then, but he was an excellent fighter, easily Greed's equal. And Ling hadn't been able to land a single blow on Wrath, whose inhuman speed and Ultimate Eye made a head-on confrontation futile—and dangerous. All right, Greed decided; it would be less noble and take a lot longer, but he would break into the house quietly, search room-by-room until he found Wrath, and use the element of surprise to his advantage.

He picked a first-floor window at random, a room that was neither brightly-lit nor completely dark, a den or library that appeared unoccupied. With his skin hardened into carbon and his fingers extended into claws, he could pick any lock; and now he made short work of the window mechanism and climbed inside the house_. You took what was mine, Wrath. _He was still consumed with rage._ Now I'm coming for y—_

Something grabbed his arm, and he felt himself being flipped and thrown several feet, where he collided hard with a sofa. Evidently the room was more occupied than it looked. The impact shocked Greed back to his senses, and he jumped back to his feet, sneering, as he faced the blonde woman in military dress blues who was staring him down, arms folded.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, annoyed. She gestured toward the ouroboros tattoo on his left hand. "You're obviously a homunculus. Since you're Xingese, I take it you're Greed?"

This must be Wrath's human wife. Pretty thing, for a military chick. "You've got some nice judo moves there, doll," he muttered, feeling a faint spark of regeneration heal the bruises she had planted on his back. He suspected he would have been kicked pretty hard, too, if she hadn't been wearing that skirt. "But I don't like to hurt women, so how about you back off now, and forget you ever saw me," he added with a menacing glare. Hopefully he could frighten her into keeping quiet; if not, he would have to knock her out.

But she didn't look frightened, or even particularly ruffled. "Why did you break in? I thought all you homunculi were on the same side."

"We _were_. Then Wrath took some things that belonged to me. Important things. Now he's going to pay." He slammed a fist into his palm and flashed her an evil smile. "But it's got nothing to do with you, so like I said, if you'll run along..."

"Are you capable of defeating him in a fight?" Her arms were still folded.

"That's what we're going to find out, sweetheart." He took a step toward her. It would be a shame to leave a bruise on that pretty white skin, but Mrs. Wrath was leaving him no choice.

She continued eying him with a critical gaze. "Maybe we can help each other, then. I'm not particularly fond of Wrath myself."

That stopped Greed in his tracks. What was this chick's angle? A lifetime of hanging around criminals and con artists (he remembered it clearly now) had given him good instincts about who he could and couldn't trust, and she seemed oddly on the level. "You're bonded to a human just like him, right?" she continued. "Is there any way to kill the homunculus without harming the host? Or even just to separate them?"

There was no reason for him to help her, but she could have tried to alert Wrath or the guards to his presence long before now, and she hadn't. And the look in her eyes was earnest; this information was important to her. "None that I know of," he answered cautiously. "Our Father is probably the only one who could do it."

She frowned in disappointment, but kept going. "Is there anything that can especially damage a homunculus? Like a certain kind of alchemy, or contact with another Philosopher's Stone?"

He shook his head. "No, there's nothing like that. A Philosopher's Stone wouldn't do anything to either me or Wrath. And any other homunculi, if you waved one in front of them, they would just absorb it and become even stronger." Trustworthy or not, he wasn't sure why he was giving her this information.

"What about weak points? Is there a part of the homunculus body that's more vulnerable, like the ouroboros mark?"

"No," he said impatiently. He didn't have all night to answer her questions. It was a big house and he had a lot of rooms to search. "That would be a pretty stupid design flaw, don't you think?"

"Granted." Her frown deepened, as she rubbed her forehead in thought.

He broke in before she could think of any new questions. "OK, doll, I've told you what I know. Your turn. How are you going to help me?"

She sighed. "You weren't particularly helpful, but I suppose a deal's a deal," she conceded. "All right, then. Wrath's in his study. Far end of the hall, turn right, and it's the first door on the left. That will save you the trouble of hunting for him." She turned away and began to peruse a bookshelf. "Good luck with your fight."

He shook his head in amazement—this must be some marriage—and chuckled. "You're all right, babe, you know that? You should come see me, after. I'm always looking for pretty things to add to my collection."

She paused and looked up from her bookcase, one eyebrow cocked skeptically. "And if I wanted to do that, how would I find you?"

"Oh, you'll be able to find me. I'm not gonna stop until I'm king of the world!" he declared with a grin. She was wearing an amused smile as he left the room.

He felt his own smile disappear as he headed down the hallway. Now that the pleasant distraction had passed, images of his dead friends once again began to crowd into his mind. His stolen possessions. Greed's mouth settled back into a grimace; it was time for the thief to pay.

* * *

Wrath had scheduled a senior staff meeting for early the next morning, and he had three large stacks of reports to review before he went to bed. But the piles of paperwork sat neglected on the desk in front of him as he stared out the window, lost in thought. (An oddly familiar experience, he reflected wryly.) This late at night, the garden outside his window would have been a featureless expanse of black to mere human eyes, but his supernatural vision could perceive every flower and blade of grass that stirred in the breeze, every cloud in the night sky, and the rare mouse or bird that scurried or flew by. Tonight those also went unseen, however, as his mind was preoccupied with other concerns.

No one had heard from Lust or Gluttony in several days. They had last been seen travelling north to Asbec, in a futile attempt to recover Envy from his "kidnappers," the fool's errand Wrath had devised to cover for his own treachery. Now they were missing. Pride was retracing their steps, searching for any sign of them. Their disappearance opened up the disturbing possibility that Wrath's fiction had come true: that the Elrics and their allies were a credible threat after all, and had somehow managed to capture or kill the two homunculi.

Wrath had decidedly mixed feelings about these developments. On the one hand, it meant that his murder of Envy would likely never be discovered; but on the other, it meant that his kind were being hunted, apparently successfully, and that any of them could be at risk. It was a strange feeling for the homunculi, apex predators of the human world, to suddenly feel vulnerable. Wrath also felt a touch of something like regret for sending the pair into harm's way. He could not say that he missed Gluttony in the least, but he considered the lack of Lust's companionship to be a genuine loss.

Distracted as he was, sitting with his back to the door, he very nearly missed the shape that streaked silently toward him—it was only a spilt second's reflection in the darkened window that tipped him off. He whirled around in his chair and raised his sword just in time to block the attack. It was Greed, his left arm hardened into carbon, claws aiming for Wrath's heart.

"Greed!" he yelled, startled. "What the hell is this?" The two homunculi were locked in a struggle, arm muscles shaking with exertion as each tried to push the sword towards the other's throat. The ouroboros was visible on Greed's hand—it was definitely him attacking this time, not his human host. _They know about Envy_, Wrath thought, his heart pounding.

"You tell me, Wrath!" Greed shouted back at him. "What the hell did you do to my possessions?!"

"What?" Confused, Wrath leapt away as Greed lunged again. The desk chair where he had been sitting exploded into splinters.

"_My friends!_" Greed howled as he wheeled after Wrath. "You killed them! They're screaming inside my head!"

"Oh. That." So this was nothing but a personal grudge. Wrath's relief was short-lived as Greed lunged again, which he countered by slashing his sword. But Greed avoided the counterattack by nimbly leaping over Wrath's head, turning a full somersault in the air before landing on top of the fireplace mantle. Even weaponless, Greed was a formidable threat—he moved fast and was a highly skilled fighter, and his carbonized hand could easily rip Wrath's heart out if it made contact with his unprotected flesh. Luckily, Wrath was much faster.

"You fool! Are you so greedy that you can't even let go of the past?" Wrath taunted as he went on the offensive, streaking after Greed and lunging with his sword. He slashed over and over, frustrated as Greed managed to dodge almost every blow, and block the rest with his carbonized arms. But as Wrath's attacks continued to rain down, rapid-fire and relentless, an edge of alarm began to rise in Greed's eyes, and finally he broke away and bolted for the other side of the room.

In irritation, Wrath hurled his sword like a javelin, which missed his fleeing target by some distance and buried itself in the wall. (OK, that had been dumb.) He streaked across the room, yanking the sword out of the wall as he landed, cornering Greed and slashing him across the chest. But before he could land a second blow, Greed leapt upwards and kicked the sword out of his hand, sending it flying through the air. Truly aggravated now, Wrath grabbed Greed by the lapels and threw him bodily across the room, then bolted after him, grabbing the sword out of the air before it had time to land. Greed thudded onto his back on the floor, and Wrath alighted with one foot standing on each of his arms, pinning him in place.

"That was fun, Greed. Best fight I've had in ages," Wrath smirked, a little out of breath from the exertion. He meant it as a sincere compliment, though he could see the hatred burning in Greed's eyes. "But I'm afraid I have to end this now." He swung his sword down on Greed's neck with enough force to decapitate him—and watched aghast as the sword broke in two on impact. Greed had carbonized his neck, turning it much harder than the steel of Wrath's sword. Taking advantage of the distraction, Greed broke free and leapt away, lips twisting into a smirk of his own as Wrath's faded. But he was in full-on retreat now, as he crashed through the glass of the nearest window and leapt out into the garden, sprinting away so quickly that Wrath lost sight of him.

Wrath stood gazing out of the window in the direction the homunculus had gone. He could try to pursue, but there was little point. He had won the fight decisively, and it was doubtful that Greed would try to take him on again. He would return to hiding, to being an outcast from Father and the rest of their kind, probably slinking back to the criminal underworld where he felt most at home.

"Sir!" The pair of guards patrolling the grounds had finally burst in. "Führer President, sir! Are you injured?" the commanding captain asked frantically.

"I'm unhurt," he replied, brushing the dust off his uniform.

"We tried to stop him, but we couldn't even slow him down—"

"Don't worry about it. He was out of your league. Just find my wife and Mrs. Bradley, and make sure they're all right." He was certain they would be fine—Greed wasn't the type to hurt innocents. At least there was no need to feign concern for his "son," who was officially away on another of his school trips. The soldiers saluted and quickly withdrew.

Wrath frowned as his eyes passed over the glass-strewn wreckage of the room. He headed for the remains of his desk, intending to locate the phone and call for additional staff to clean up the mess. After that, he would need to notify Father…but as he turned, a subtle flicker of shadow back in the hallway caught his eye. Had Greed left an accomplice behind—? In another instant he had pounced upon the shadow's source.

It was a startled Riza. She had been lurking in the hall with a large knife she must have gotten from the kitchen. He disarmed her with a smirk, capturing her wrist lightly. "And exactly what were you intending to do with this, my dear?" he mocked. She wore a guilty manner; clearly he had caught her at something. Yet he sensed no violent intent.

"I wasn't sure how much of a threat another homunculus might be," she admitted, her cheeks reddening slightly. "I thought you might need some backup."

His eyes widened in genuine surprise, as did his smirk. "So you rushed to my defense? My goodness. How unexpectedly romantic."

She jerked her wrist free of his grasp, glowering. "Don't flatter yourself, Wrath. I was only here to watch the Colonel's back."

He let her go, his laughter following her down the hall as she strode angrily away. "First jealousy, now protectiveness," he called after her. "I do believe this is becoming a habit, Riza." She made no reply as she stomped up the staircase toward her bedroom.

He was sorely tempted to follow her, but suppressed the urge. There would be plenty of opportunities for that later. And as for her stubborn attachment to his human host…very soon the absorption would be finished, and there would be no difference between himself and her precious Colonel. No difference at all. It wouldn't be much longer now.


	21. Asymmetric Warfare

Chapter 21: Asymmetric Warfare

Alphonse knew he shouldn't feel happy. The entire country was sitting on top of a giant human transmutation circle, created by powerful nonhuman creatures whose evil goal was still unknown. He was on a journey to help create a massive counter-circle to negate its effects, but the task would take months, with no guarantee that it would work. He and his fellow alchemists were being forced to travel through the countryside in secret while the military hunted them. And he still had no idea where his brother was.

But they had made it to Liore, the first point on their counter-circle. It was the first actual town they'd seen in some time. The townspeople were friendly, offering hot food and beds for those in their party that could use them (which didn't include Alphonse and his steel body, but still). And the most important fact of all: one of those welcoming people was a man named Van Hohenheim, the father that he and Edward had not seen for ten years. And that made him _very_ happy.

As they sat talking, Alphonse knew he should be furious at the man for abandoning their family—Edward certainly would have been—but after listening to his incredible story, the boy was moved to forgive him. There was so much the brothers had never known about their father. Far from being an ordinary man, he was more than 400 years old. He had born a slave in the ancient, now long-dead kingdom of Xerxes, where he had befriended a strange alchemical being—the one they now knew as Father. That creature had gone on to sacrifice the population of Xerxes to create the first Philosopher's Stone, giving himself an immortal human body, while forcing the same "gift" on an unwitting Hohenheim. Traumatized, Hohenheim had spent the centuries wandering, searching for a way to return his body to normal. He had finally found a measure of peace when he had fallen in love with Trisha Elric and become a father. But when his alchemical research had led him to stumble on Father's plans for Amestris, he had left his family behind to search for a way to stop it from happening.

It took some time for Alphonse to absorb and accept his father's tale. But after all, how many people would believe his own story, that he was a disembodied soul inhabiting an empty suit of armor? He felt in his heart (wherever it might physically be) that he could trust the man, and in turn he confided his own tale, from how he had lost his body to the reason he had come to Liore, and everything in between. The words tumbled out of him excitedly as he darted from subject to subject, and he could tell there were times Hohenheim was struggling to keep up with him, in that familiar way that adults always had trouble following young people's conversations.

"…and since Lust isn't a threat anymore, we let May take her home to Xing," he finished his account. "That happened somewhere between Asbec and Youswell. Then we came here, as fast as we could." He stopped to collect his thoughts, and put a hand behind his head sheepishly. "Oh, that reminds me! I haven't sent a message to Lieutenant Hawkeye yet, to tell her about Dr. Marcoh!" He had instructions to send any important news to one of Madam Christmas' dummy addresses, but this was the first place they'd reached that was big enough to have postal service.

"Wait a minute," Hohenheim broke in, still trying to catch up with Alphonse's rapid-fire storytelling. His forehead was creased in concern. "You told me a few minutes ago that you helped create one of the codes that the resistance is using, right? And it's based on a lullaby Trisha used to sing?" Alphonse nodded. "Which one?"

If Alphonse's face had been human, his cheeks probably would have blushed pink as he awkwardly sang a few lines.

"You need to stop using that code," Hohenheim told him seriously. "I taught that song to your mother. It's from ancient Xerxes. Father knows it, and the homunculi might know it too."

Alphonse gasped. "But, wait," he protested. "The lyrics have been translated into Amestrian! And that's just the key to the code. Even knowing the song, could they really figure out what a message says just by looking…?"

Hohenheim was shaking his head. "I know it sounds crazy, but don't ever underestimate these creatures, Alphonse. Remember that Father was born in a test tube—and within a few days, he was teaching _me_ alchemy! He comes from beyond the Gate, and the homunculi were once part of him. They have abilities far beyond anything we can comprehend."

The boy hesitated, then nodded gravely. "OK, Dad. I'll tell Lieutenant Hawkeye that she should stop using that code."

By now they had talked for so long, and about such weighty matters, that they were both exhausted (mentally if not physically, since the father's immortal body was as immune to fatigue as the son's metal one). Hohenheim took his leave, giving Alphonse time alone to complete his task. But as the boy produced a pad of paper and a pen from the bag he wore at his waist and sat down to compose the letter, he found himself staring ruefully at the blank page in front of him.

_If I'm supposed to be warning the Lieutenant not to use Code C_, he thought, _then what code am I supposed to write the message in?_

* * *

Four days later, Hawkeye stared at the piece of paper in her hands, struggling to keep her eyes from filling with tears of happiness. "This is it, Havoc," she whispered, her voice betraying a slight quaver. "This is the news we've been waiting for. With this, we can save the Colonel." As they stood concealed in their usual spot behind dressing room #2, she read and reread the words of Alphonse's message, smiling fiercely. At last, they had real hope!

Havoc was also grinning. "God bless the Elric brats—they really came through!" he laughed, the relief evident in his voice. But after a few moments, his grin lessened just slightly as he added more softly, "Of course, we'll have to keep waiting for awhile longer."

Hawkeye nodded, sobering a bit. "Until the Promised Day. A little over four months from now." She took a deep breath that came out slightly ragged. "I understand their reasoning. The nationwide transmutation circle needs to be dealt with first. Whatever it's designed to do, it's bound to be horrible, and on a scale we can't even imagine. It _has_ to be stopped," she conceded. Her eyes met Havoc's with a rueful smile. "But damn it, to be this close…"

He returned an ironic smile of his own. It was how their luck always seemed to work: for every three steps they took forward, they were shoved back two. But once again, there was nothing they could do but wait. "Well anyway," he moved on, gesturing toward the letter, "did you make it to the second page? Alphonse thinks there might be a problem with Code C." Hawkeye flipped the page over and scanned the rest of the message. Havoc continued, "He used the code to write this letter, but he was worried enough that he also encoded the message backwards. Took me forever to translate it."

She sighed. "Terrific. Our best code may be compromised." Virtually every message they'd exchanged had been destroyed upon receipt, but a handful persisted, buried in the memos she had sent from the Führer's office. Hawkeye rubbed her forehead, evaluating the risk of Wrath finding them. The missives had been written months ago and delivered to far-flung locations around Central Command. While it wasn't impossible that Wrath could get ahold of them, it seemed highly unlikely. In any case, there was nothing they could do about it now.

"OK," she said. "To begin with, we need to stop using that code for anything sensitive. No more written messages at all, if we can help it." That was a surmountable problem: ironically, the fact that Wrath had shipped their teammates across the country had made communicating with them easier. The overstressed base commanders, busy fending off incursions from Amestris' combative neighbors, had neither the manpower nor the desire to babysit the Führer's pet projects. Fuery, Falman and Breda had quickly taken advantage of this lack of supervision, and set up secure phone and telegraph lines that were being used to coordinate planning among the team and their allies in the North and East.

Hawkeye continued, "If Wrath can crack this code, then maybe we can use it our advantage. He can't have discovered it yet—I'd have heard about it. So if he finds it now, after it's been well-hidden all this time, he'll believe that anything it says is genuine. That means we can use it to send whatever message we want him to hear." She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "Let me think a little further about how we can use this."

Havoc nodded. "OK. Guess there's still a lot to do between now and the Promised Day," he added with a sigh.

"There certainly is," she agreed with a sly grin. "And no way are we going to sit back and let the alchemists do _all_ the hard work."

* * *

As Hawkeye returned to the office, it was a herculean task to get her newfound hopefulness under enough control to keep Wrath from noticing. Fortunately, he spent the afternoon preoccupied with a new system of supply logistics that was causing the military nothing but headaches. She managed to make it through the rest of the workday, get home, and sequester herself in her bedroom without attracting more than his glancing attention.

She knew better than allow herself too much optimism, but she could not help but smile as she settled on her bed, taking advantage of a few minutes' solitude before dinner. Salvation was within reach now. They just had to hold out until the Promised Day. The only real risk was the same one they had faced all along, that Wrath might complete the process of absorbing the Colonel's soul. But that process appeared to have plateaued for the time being, with no further signs that the two personas were blending. Whatever battle was raging inside his head, it seemed that the Colonel was managing to keep the homunculus at bay.

Hawkeye's own circumstances had improved notably in recent weeks. Ever since the night she had tried to kill Wrath, he had continued to stay out of her bedroom. Perhaps he still felt badly about what Pride had done to her grandfather; perhaps he was trying a new and more polite tack to win her affections; or perhaps his "visits" had simply become too much trouble with no discernible payoff. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for the small measure of peace. Last week she even had come home to find that the holes he had punched in her bedroom wall had been repaired.

And there had been one more stroke of good fortune. Despite the fact that Greed's attack had wrecked virtually every object in Wrath's study, somehow her microphone and transmitter had survived, intact and undetected, inside one of the few decorations that hadn't been smashed. (A ceramic poodle: bless Mrs. Bradley and her insane love of knickknacks.) Now as she lay on her bed, Hawkeye picked up the earphone and receiver and began to listen in on Wrath as he briefed Pride on the day's events.

The briefing was already in progress. "...received the latest report from Briggs. They've requested a postponement of the annual Joint Exercises due to the Drachma attack, but otherwise they're continuing to tow the line," Wrath was saying. "The request is reasonable under the circumstances. And there haven't been any attempts to contact Major General Armstrong, at least that we've been able to detect."

"Good," responded Pride in his usual tone of faint disapproval. "Remember that keeping the North in line continues to be your responsibility, Wrath. See that there are no further complications."

Wrath sighed indulgently. "Just relax, Pride. Everything is going according to plan." Hawkeye froze—something was wrong. His voice had taken on the Colonel's self-satisfied lilt. She had never heard that happen in his conversations with Pride, where were familiar ground for Bradley, but not Mustang.

Pride must have heard it too. "By the way," he asked, "have you finally finished absorbing your human host?"

"Not completely," Wrath acknowledged, "but I'm very close. The bonding is moving along much faster now. If nothing disturbs the process, it will only be a matter of days." Hawkeye's jaw dropped, her heart pounding in alarm. That wasn't possible! How could it have gotten that far without her seeing any signs? Could he be bluffing for Pride's benefit?

"And your new wife isn't interfering?" Pride continued, as if reading her thoughts. He spit out the words _new wife_ as if they were an insult.

"The Lieutenant doesn't know how far it's progressed. I've been taking great pains to hide it from her." She could hear the smirk in Wrath's voice as the blood drained from her face. "I look forward to surprising her with the news—soon."

Pride snorted with derision. "Everything would have gone more smoothly if you hadn't insisted on marrying that woman," he grumbled, his voice beginning to drop in volume as he walked away from the microphone. "I sincerely hope your younger prettier wife was worth all this trouble…" The conversation faded from hearing range as the homunculi left the study.

Hawkeye let the earphone and receiver fall to the bed, as she clenched her fists and fought the rising edge of panic. They had run out of time. There was no way they could hold out until the Promised Day now. If she'd had any idea where to find Dr. Marcoh, she would have left immediately to go get him, dragging him bodily back to Central if necessary. But all she knew was that he was somewhere in the vast northeastern quadrant of the country, probably far from any populated area. She would never find him in time.

_Focus_, she ordered, holding her head in her hands. _There must be some way to slow it down._ Wrath had said as much to Pride; he'd been hiding the signs from her so she wouldn't interfere. She had the power to stop it—if she could figure out how.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, forcing herself to calm down, concentrating on the problem. What had been Wrath's exact words when he had told her about the bonding process? _Every day, he gets a little weaker, and I absorb a little more of his soul. It won't be long before the process is complete, and permanent. _He had first made that threat months ago, and since then, he had continually promised her that it would happen "soon." But it hadn't. It was clear that the Colonel had been putting up much more resistance than Wrath had expected. So why was that suddenly changing now?

Her mind moved next to Lust's cryptic advice: _Keep doing what you're doing._ After her attempt to stab Wrath had made matters worse, she had concluded that Lust, who had her own interest in keeping Wrath and the Colonel apart, was advising her to do nothing. To avoid spurring Wrath into violence, avoid creating a situation where the Colonel would have to fight him for control. So for weeks, Hawkeye had taken no action that might provoke him. There had been no altercations, and no appearances by the Colonel, since the night of the stabbing. But that obviously wasn't enough. She had missed something.

What had changed since Lust had given her that advice? The only thing that Hawkeye could point to was that Wrath had stopped invading her bedroom. The Colonel was no longer taking control to come to her defense. But she had already determined that fighting Wrath made the Colonel weaker. So how could—

Her eyes snapped open. That was it.

The only time she had actually seen the Colonel weaken after fighting, she realized, was _when she had stabbed Wrath._ At that moment the two entities had been locked in an all-out battle, with Wrath's very survival at stake. They had never fought harder, before or since. She remembered the sight of the ouroboros twitching as the Colonel repeatedly tried, and failed, to take control. It was the only time she had seen Wrath dominate him utterly.

Hawkeye might not comprehend alchemy, but she understood military theory. If a smaller, weaker force attacked a larger, stronger one in a full-on assault, the weaker force would lose—badly. But if the weaker force instead waged a series of smaller battles, designed merely to harass and delay the enemy without provoking a major counter-assault, it could hold out for much longer. She had watched it happen in Ishval. It was only near the end of the war, when the Ishvalan resistance had become organized and was inflicting serious casualties, that the Amestrian military had finally mobilized enough forces to crush it. Prior to that, small ragtag squads of Ishvalan farmers, villagers and priests had somehow managed to bedevil the Amestrian military superpower—disrupting supply lines, thwarting reconnaissance missions, hindering reinforcements—for seven years.

Now the same thing was happening inside Roy Mustang's head. A human versus a homunculus: it was a textbook case of asymmetric warfare. The one time that Wrath had felt truly threatened, the homunculus had instinctively lashed back with overwhelming strength. But when the Colonel fought back just a little, as he did every time he stopped Wrath from attacking Hawkeye, it was Wrath who suffered, and the bonding process was disrupted. And now Wrath had figured that out. The homunculus wasn't staying out of her bedroom out of courtesy or pity, she realized with agitation. He was merely biding his time, shortening the wait until he could move in permanently!

And that, in turn, meant that to save the Colonel, and protect herself, Hawkeye needed to do the last thing on earth she wanted to do. She needed to lure Wrath back in.

* * *

Behind the usual insincere smiles over dinner, Hawkeye no longer needed to worry about hiding the hope that Alphonse's message had given her. Now it was panic that she needed to suppress. But if Wrath perceived the roiling emotions beneath her calm surface, he made no comment.

She needed to plan her next move carefully. It was clear that the Colonel could not simply emerge whenever he chose; under normal circumstances, his soul was imprisoned within Wrath. There needed to be extreme emotional conflict between the two personalities, conflict strong enough to temporarily force them apart, for the Colonel to be able to separate himself and take back control of his body. She needed to create those conditions. Clever and determined evil creature Wrath might be, but he was still part human. It was just a matter of figuring out what buttons to push.

When the meal was over and they got up from the table, she allowed her gaze to linger on Wrath for a brief moment before taking her leave. "Goodnight," she told him sweetly, feeling his eyes follow her as she walked into the hallway and mounted the staircase leading to her room. When she reached the top, she paused and took a moment to look out the hall window, trusting that he was still watching. Then slowly and deliberately, without looking back at him, she reached up and unfastened her hairclip, and absently shook out her long blonde hair behind her back. After a few moments, still without looking in his direction, she moved on to her bedroom.

By the time she stepped through the door, he was already waiting for her.

"Hello, Riza," he purred, and now for the first time in this situation, she could see hints of the Colonel's charm in place of Bradley's usual arrogance. "I've been making a point of keeping my distance. Giving you your space, as you requested." His tone was amused, faintly mocking. "But just now—that looked awfully like an invitation."

If she rejected him too quickly, he might turn and leave without pushing the issue further. She needed to reel him in first. "An invitation?" she asked coyly, one eyebrow raised. "To what, exactly?"

He took the bait. "I think you know perfectly well," he smirked. He took her hand in his and drew closer. "Do we really need to play this little game? If you want me, I'm yours. You only need to say so. We are married, after all." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

It took a heroic effort not to recoil in horror. "We _have_ been getting along better lately, haven't we?" Hawkeye replied pleasantly. Her eyes scanned his face, and she allowed her gaze to rest on his for just a moment, smiling. Then she deliberately yanked her hand from his and stepped backwards, glaring. "But I don't want you. Not even a little bit. Get out of my room—now."

His face contorted into a scowl, his expression confused. "You—" he snapped, then broke off and instead grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. He pulled her towards him again, just as the ouroboros in his right eye began to weave. _Come on, Colonel,_ she thought…

But unexpectedly, he managed to keep control. The effort he was making to restrain his temper was playing out on his face, as the muscles in his jaw tightened and his breathing quickened. "I can see that you're still conflicted," he said evenly, with a bittersweet smile. "It's understandable. I am trying to be patient with you." She realized with a start that he was sincerely bewildered by her behavior.

"The only one of us who's conflicted is _you_, Wrath," she smirked back at him. Then she shoved him away from her with all her strength. "_I don't. Want you. Get. Out!_" she shouted.

He took a step toward her, snarling with real rage now. But the ouroboros weaving rapidly, and the next instant, the Colonel's eye snapped into place.

He stood frozen, as he always did when he took control, only his eyes reaching out to her. She wanted nothing more than to gather him into her arms. But it was too risky to touch him like this, when his hold on his own body was so tenuous. She could do nothing but gaze helplessly back at him, as they stood frustratingly just out of each other's reach.

"Hang in there, Colonel," she said softly. "We've got four more months. I'm counting on you."

"You too," he gasped with a faint smile. "Stay safe, Lieutenant." If he hadn't already told her he loved her, or if she hadn't believed him, the look in his eyes now would have told her all she needed to know. She nodded, a lump in her throat.

In the next moment he was gone, and Wrath was back, predictably furious. This time he didn't move any closer. "I know exactly what you're trying to do, my dear," he snarled, now speaking only with Bradley's voice "Do you think I'm a fool? The Promised Day is coming, and so is our wedding night! You can plan and scheme and try to tempt me all you want in the meantime. It's not going to work." But now all hints of the Colonel's personality were gone.

Hawkeye's face was fixed in a blank smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said.

In response, he slammed his fist into the bedroom wall, shattering the smooth plaster once more, and stormed out. She locked the door behind him and braced it with a chair, then collapsed onto her bed, relieved and exhausted. She had disrupted the bonding process, she was certain now. It had worked.

And suddenly she knew that it would keep on working, and they would be all right. Manipulating Wrath like this for the next four months would be difficult, unpleasant, and dangerous, but she would be successful, and the Colonel would stay whole. Even though Wrath knew what she was doing. Even though he would try to resist her temptation. He would fail, time and again; because he was reckless and impulsive, because he wanted her badly. And because if there was one thing she had learned, after all the years she had known Roy Mustang, it was how to push that man's buttons.

Impulsively, Hawkeye grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. And for the first time in many months—since the night the Colonel had been taken from her—she actually laughed.


	22. Pattern Recognition

Chapter 22: Pattern Recognition

Spring was finally here, Wrath noted as he stared idly out of the window of his Central Command office. Blades of grass had begun to poke up out of the barren ground in earnest, leaves were appearing on the trees, and even the birds were returning. Good, he thought with grim satisfaction. This winter had been a long and frustrating one, and the sooner it was behind him and forgotten, the better.

He had been _so close_. Four months ago, he had finally all but completed the process of absorbing Roy Mustang's extremely stubborn soul. The end of the process had been merely days away. But then…he felt his hands reflexively clench into fists at the memory. That damned woman had figured out his weakness. And she hadn't let up since.

It wasn't as if he was fooled by Riza's flirtations. It was pure manipulation, and he knew it. But she had a way of _doing_ things to him that he couldn't entirely control. Small but subtly effective gestures: the way her eyes would rake over his body when no one else was looking; how she moved suspiciously close to him when he signed her paperwork; the unexpected touches of her hand on his hand, his shoulder, the small of his back. He vowed every time that he would not give in to temptation. Yet nearly every night, he found himself trying his luck in her bedroom, knowing it would do him no good, but unable to resist just the same.

When she wasn't busy tormenting his libido, she was preying on his temper. "Accidentally" spilling his coffee, mis-scheduling his appointments, mixing up important files. Again, small incidents by themselves, but collectively successful at working him into such rages that he repeatedly lashed out at her—only to be stopped at the last moment, every time, by his infernal human host. The bonding process had been so thoroughly disrupted that he had long since given up hope of completing it before the Promised Day.

But now that day was all but upon them. By tomorrow, all of Riza's games would cease to matter. Once the fifty million residents of Amestris were converted into a massive Philosopher's Stone, Father would gain immense, unimaginable power—and some of that power would be shared with his homunculus children. Absorbing his rebellious host's soul would be child's play then. Once his wife realized that she was one of only a handful of humans who had been permitted to live, she would probably lose the will to fight him any further; but either way, she would have no more power to stop him. She would submit to him, and they would finally live together as husband and wife, the way it was meant to be. He smiled to himself as he contemplated that pleasant future.

Then he sighed and turned back to his desk. That was tomorrow. Today, he still had work to do. There were still potential complications to be smoothed over, minor threats from the human resistance that needed to be stamped out. One of those threats lay on the desk in front of him: a memo from East City headquarters outlining the schedule for the Joint Exercises. The event had been delayed repeatedly, then relocated and rescheduled, at the request of the Northern forces after the Drachma incursion. The new schedule meant that the first day of the exercises would happen tomorrow—a coincidence too suspicious to ignore. Both the North and East divisions had spent the week leading up to the exercises assembling, organizing, and drilling their armies. If they were planning to stage a coup, it would be the perfect cover.

It would also be fairly obvious cover. Were his enemies really that foolish? True, Riza had already slipped up several times. He had caught her when she helped the Elrics capture Gluttony. Her deception over the dog had been obvious. And though she didn't know it, he had immediately detected the two secret codes (both the decoy and the real one) that she had hidden in her memos. He had been quietly reading her messages for several months, and found the quality of information contained in them to be virtually useless from a tactical standpoint. Perhaps he had simply overestimated the capabilities of his beloved Lieutenant and the rest of his team.

But if they really were planning to move against him during the Joint Exercises, she had to have some way of coordinating with the others that he still hadn't detected. Wrath tapped his fingers on his desk thoughtfully. She was under fairly tight surveillance, kept away from phones and radio. Her only means of communicating with the outside world were the aforementioned memos, and he had personally read and approved each one. Could she have hidden additional messages in them, ones that he'd somehow missed?

He sighed again, then picked up the phone, dialed the Central Records Department, and ordered copies of all the memos sent from his office for the past eight months to be delivered to him in person. It would be tedious and time-consuming, but if there was any evidence in them, he would find it.

* * *

The Promised Day was almost here. In less than twenty-four hours, the resistance circle would learn whether all their planning and preparation, all their military and alchemic strategizing would be enough to save them. No less than the fate of the entire nation of Amestris rested on their shoulders.

Hawkeye pushed her way through the door of Vanessa's dress shop for the last time, her bodyguards trailing behind her. They all went through the usual motions, as Vanessa presented Hawkeye with an armload of dresses she had "ordered," and Hawkeye dutifully retreated to the dressing room to "try them on," while the bodyguards were subjected to yet another lengthy, flirtatious sales pitch. Today, however, there were no attractive customers to further distract their attention. There was no need for Hawkeye to slip into the secret room behind the full-length mirror, since Havoc was elsewhere, supervising the final tactical arrangements for tomorrow. Her time here was purely for show.

She laid aside the pile of dresses and sat in the dressing room's chair, taking advantage of the momentary break to rest her head against the wall and close her eyes. Her mind remained occupied, as she spent several minutes reciting the list of tasks she and her team members had to finish, considering the myriad ways things could go wrong between today and tomorrow, and reviewing their contingency plans for each scenario.

But then she pushed all of that out of her mind, breathed deeply, and deliberately let her thoughts wander back to the past. She recalled the pleasantly ordinary days in their old office, when her time had been filled with reining in her teammates' antics and haranguing the Colonel to finish his paperwork. Her memory lingered on the familiar image of Mustang sitting at his desk, staring out of the window with that familiar smirk playing at his lips, the wheels of his mind turning over some complex scheme that only he fully understood. The picture was still so bright and clear to her that it nearly took her breath away. A reminder of what she was fighting for.

After a few more moments, she shook herself from her reverie, retrieved the pile of dresses, and headed back out to the sales floor. "I'll take all of them," she lied pleasantly as she handed the clothing back to Vanessa. "You'll have them delivered as usual?"

"Of course, Mrs. Mustang," Vanessa smiled. "You'll have everything by tomorrow." The bodyguards, politely bored, paid little attention to the minutiae of the First Lady's shopping routine. Nor did they appear to notice the meaningful glint in the shopkeeper's eye as she slid a small white package, wrapped in plastic film, across the counter. "By the way," she added cheerfully, "we finally got in those handkerchiefs you asked for. They were made by an artisan in North City who only does custom work. You'll find that the material is especially fine, and they're embroidered, as you requested." She inclined her head in a slight nod and added, "I apologize for the delay. But I do hope the wait was worth it."

Hawkeye broke into a smile of her own. "Thank you, Vanessa. I've been looking forward to getting these." The visible part of the package did appear to contain a handkerchief, with her initials embroidered in navy blue cursive (RM, for Riza Mustang, she noted wryly). But hidden beneath that cover, she knew she would find the long-awaited ignition gloves.

Back at Central Command headquarters, Hawkeye made a hurried trip to the women's restroom before returning to the office. After all this time, and amidst the all their meticulous planning for the Promised Day, the gloves had actually slipped her mind, and she hadn't formed a plan for when or how to use them. Until she figured that out, it was imperative that they remain hidden. Making a quick assessment of her uniform in the mirror, she tucked the package into the left-hand inside pocket of her jacket, where the fabric was bulkiest. She turned and viewed herself from several angles until she was certain that there was no visible outline. Of course, what was visible to her and what was visible to Wrath were significantly different things. If he found them, she supposed she would just have to draw the Colonel out and get him to use them, then and there. _At least then I wouldn't have to think of a plan_, she thought with an exhausted smile as she headed back to the office. _I'm so tired of planning._

But it was no joking matter, she reminded herself as her smile faded. The gloves were risky, a last resort. Because in the Colonel's hands, they were a deadly weapon, and she feared that he would he would use them to carry out the order that she had been unable to fulfill. Before she handed them over to the Colonel, the one thing she needed to do was make sure he wouldn't use them to die.

When she arrived back at the office, she discovered that she needn't have worried about Wrath spotting the package in her pocket. With no explanation, and quite unusually, the Führer President had already gone home for the day.

* * *

It was so much worse than he had guessed.

Wrath was home now, in his own study, with eight months' worth of hidden messages spread in front of him on his desk. The content was scant, but incriminating. How clever of Riza to slip extra pages into the memos after he'd signed them, and how stupid of him not to notice. He had been overconfident. He had underestimated her, underestimated his whole team.

It was easy enough to see how the messages had been distributed. All of the coded memos were logged as having passed through the Benefits Department. The staff roster for that department included a woman named Sheska Hamilton—Hughes' old secretary, the one with the photographic memory. She had worked there up until four months ago, when she had mysteriously quit with no notice.

Even the code they had used was clever. It was so complex that he was certain no human could decipher it without knowing the key. But Wrath was no mere human, of course. His own powers of visual perception, combined with Mustang's superior intellect and familiarity with using codes, together produced superhuman abilities of pattern recognition. It had helped that he was familiar with the key. After all, Wrath had been formed from Father's essence, and Father had been born in the ancient Xerxian Empire. He had lived among its citizens, spoken their language, read their literature—and knew their songs. Which meant that Wrath knew them too. He had no idea where his enemies, citizens of modern Amestris, would have learned the words to a long-dead Xerxian lullaby; but there it was, the key to their code, embedded in the words of the memo's secret pages.

Riza had sent only three messages using the lullaby code. The earliest read: CONTACT MADAM CHRISTMAS. NEED IGNITION GLOVES. She must have deduced early on that Mustang's flame alchemy was a potential threat to him. The gloves wouldn't have been easy to get ahold of, but with Madam's connections, Riza likely had a pair in hand by now. Wrath's agents were currently tearing her room apart searching for them.

The second message was simply a warning: MADAM, WRATH KNOWS YOU'RE INVOLVED. That had been sent just after the incident with the dog. He had long assumed his foster mother was in the middle of things, since she usually was, but he had not pursued that hunch as aggressively as he should have. Again, he had been overconfident.

The last message, sent four months ago, was by far the most incriminating, and the most dangerous in its implications. It read: AFTER THE NEW YEAR, IN THE SPRING, ON THE PROMISED DAY, THE NORTH AND EAST WILL MAKE THEIR MOVE. Most alarmingly, Riza had sent it _twenty-three times_ to recipients all around the Northern and Eastern HQs. That told him that the size of the plot was significant. It could only mean that his suspicions were correct, that the Joint Exercises were a pretext for a planned revolt. It was a large enough threat to their plans that he would need to deal with it personally.

Wrath crumpled the paper in his hands, shaking with anger. How dare they plot against him—insolent human trash! And Riza was right in the center of the plot, as usual. After all the chances he had given her, all the mercy he had shown her—

A sharp knock on the door shook him from his thoughts. It was one of his agents. "Sir," the man stated with crisp salute. "We've searched Lieutenant Hawkeye's room thoroughly. We did not find any gloves. But we did find these." He gingerly set two small objects on Wrath's desk. Electronic components—a miniature earphone and receiver. "The range on something this small isn't very far. We suspect she's been using them to listen in on another room in this house." He paused to clear his throat. "Probably this very room, sir. If you would permit us to search…?"

Breathing deeply with rage now, Wrath abruptly stood and began to stride out of the room. "By all means, conduct your search," he snapped over his shoulder. "I have travel arrangements to make. And have Lieutenant Hawkeye brought home from the office immediately." He paused and gave the agent a very cold smile. "I think it's time my wife and I had a little talk."


	23. Unfinished Business

Chapter 23: Unfinished Business

The bodyguards were apologetic. "We weren't told the reason, ma'am. We were just ordered to bring you home early, and escort you directly to the Führer President's study," Lieutenant Jameson explained.

"All right. Thank you. You may go," Hawkeye dismissed them absently. Once they had gone, and after another moment's nervous hesitation, she took a deep breath and knocked on the study door.

"_Enter._" She could tell from his tone, abrupt and full of ice, that whatever he had to say to her would not be good news. "Close the door behind you," Wrath ordered coldly. He sat behind his desk, rifling a sheaf of papers. Not smiling. "And come here."

Cautiously, Hawkeye approached his desk. "Is there something—" she began, then startled as he threw the pile of papers directly at her face. Memos, she saw as they fell, her breath catching. Her memos. He had found them.

"I see that you've been busy," he growled, standing and moving slowly around the desk toward where she stood. "With some creative writing. And playing with your little _toys_." He punctuated the last word by hurling a handful of small objects at her, as she flinched reflexively. They bounced off of her to the floor, where they lay glittering: her listening components, all four of them, now irreparably smashed. He had figured out everything.

There was no point in denying her actions. She would need to tread very carefully now. "I see," she said quietly, swallowing as he came to a halt next to her. She felt herself trembling slightly. "What…what are you going to do?"

He smiled humorlessly. "What I am going to do," he said slowly, "is travel to East City and deal with this ridiculous plot surrounding the Joint Exercises. And that is all you need to know. This little scheme, and everyone involved with it, is no longer your concern."

Standing very close to her, he folded his arms, appraising her up and down as she avoided his gaze. "As disappointed in you as I am, my dear, I acknowledge that I should have expected this. You're not the type to go down without a fight. And you've put up a valiant effort." He gave her another thin smile. "In fact, part of me is proud of how hard you've fought, and how skillfully. But the game is over now. You've lost."

His hand gripped her arm hard, as he bared his teeth. "And what I'm going to do to _you_ depends entirely on how cooperative you are in the next five minutes," he continued menacingly. "I want the gloves, _now_. Give them to me."

"There aren't any gloves," she lied, turning to stare earnestly into his eyes. His grip on her arm tightened painfully. "Madam couldn't get them! Not without you finding out," she gasped in protest.

"_Enough_, Riza! Enough of your lies!" he thundered. He slammed her up against the wall, using one arm to pin her neck tight enough to make her gasp for air. "I think you have them. And since they aren't in your room, I think you're carrying them on you right now." His eyes pored over her body, and as she'd feared, immediately came to rest on the left side of her jacket. His free hand found its way to her chest, roughly caressing the fabric of the jacket before thrusting its way into the inner pocket. Her breath caught anew as he grasped the package of ignition gloves and yanked it out. She had not opened it, and it was still disguised as a packet of handkerchiefs.

"And what do we have here?" he demanded, but there was no teasing lilt to his voice, only Bradley's snarl.

"They're just handkerchiefs!" she insisted desperately. Not now, not after everything they'd gone through to get the gloves…but it was too late. She was out of lies, out of ways to stall him. Still pinning her to the wall, he fumbled the package one-handed and bit the plastic film open with his teeth. Hawkeye's heart pounded as the contents fluttered to the floor—

They were just handkerchiefs. Three of them, white linen with dark blue cursive initials. Hawkeye stared with shock as the realization dawned: they were a decoy. _You'll have everything by tomorrow_, Vanessa had hinted. Madam had expected this to happen. She still had the gloves.

Wrath's eyes had followed the white squares as they fell, and now he studied them, perplexed, as they lay on the floor. "You were telling the truth," he muttered, surprised. His gaze turned upward to scan her face. He was confused, and it made him angrier. "What are these?" he snapped, eyes searching her face. "You were obviously upset that I found them. Why do you have them?"

It took no effort at all for Hawkeye to allow her eyes to fill with tears (of relief this time, although he wouldn't know it). "Because I need them," she said softly, her voice breaking slightly, eyes turned downward in a pretense of embarrassment. "Is that really so hard for you to understand?"

As always, her tears seemed to throw him off balance. His gaze swung down to the fallen handkerchiefs, which had formed a limp pile of embroidered RMs, then back to her face. "Your tears," he growled, voice dripping with contempt. "You've been crying for _him_. Pining over Roy Mustang like some pathetic lovestruck fool!"

Hawkeye could see the cold fury rising in his eyes, and for the first time, it struck her just how jealous the homunculus was. That she only wanted the real man, and loathed his twisted imitation. How had she not seen it before? The monster cared how she felt about him—which meant that she could wound him. "It's true," she answered boldly, deliberately provoking him. She had nothing to lose now. "I love him. I will love him until the day I die." She stared at him fully, challenging. "And I feel _nothing_ but disgust for you!"

The shot had hit its mark. His face went white with fury, his mouth tightening into an angry line as his eyes continued to bore into her. He stood breathing heavily with rage for some time before he finally spoke. "You're confused, my dear," he said quietly. His smile was the coldest thing she had ever laid eyes on. "I've already told you that you need to stop thinking of that man as a separate entity. Everything that was once his, belongs to me now. His memories, his cleverness, his identity—and you. You're mine now, just as much as he is."

She continued to look him squarely in the eye, and now her own icy smile matched his as she slowly shook her head. "You're going to lose it all, Wrath. You are going to die. He and I are going to take you down together."

In the next instant he had shoved her so violently that she found herself sprawled on the floor several feet away. "You treacherous whore!" he shouted. She knew then that he wanted to hurt her, really hurt her, more than he ever had before. But the ouroboros in his eye was weaving. The Colonel would protect her. Even more emboldened now, she climbed back to her feet and prepared to let fly with additional taunts, hoping his rage would escalate until the Colonel could take control—but her words were cut off by a loud banging on the door.

The ouroboros snapped back into place as Wrath, his fury blunted by the distraction, regained his composure. "Enter," he barked.

It was a tall, thin, balding man in a beige overcoat. His face was plain, his expression placid; a completely colorless and nondescript individual. But beneath the vanilla exterior, Hawkeye could see the hard muscles in his face and neck, and the cruel glint of amusement in his eyes as he took in the aftermath of their altercation. This could only be one of Wrath's agents, the men who did the work that was too dirty and secret even for the military.

If the homunculus cared that the agent knew he'd been roughing up his wife, it didn't show. "Your report," Wrath snapped, his glare still fixed on Hawkeye.

"We spent the afternoon investigating all of the businesses Lieutenant Hawkeye has visited in the last eight months, as ordered," the man replied coolly. "All the premises have been searched thoroughly, and the proprietors detained and questioned. We found three suspicious establishments." Hawkeye stopped breathing. "The most incriminating was a dress shop. The owner was a hostess employed by Madam Christmas, and we located a hidden room behind one of the dressing rooms." He paused. "However, when we arrived, the storefront was locked and deserted. The owner has not been found.

"The other two suspicious businesses were a sandwich cart, also owned by a Christmas employee, and a florist's cart owned by a woman with ties to the Armstrong family. But both of those carts have disappeared, along with their owners." Hawkeye slowly let out the breath she had been holding, as she watched Wrath's scowl deepen. Her allies were all right. They had gotten away.

"And Madam Christmas?" the homunculus demanded.

The agent coughed, betraying a hint of nervousness. "The bar and residence owned by Christmas are also deserted, and there is no sign of the woman herself."

Wrath wheeled on the agent. "_Your men were supposed to be watching her!_"

The beige man shrank imperceptibly. "It appears she managed to elude surveillance during a shopping trip earlier today, sir," he demurred.

The homunculus glowered in silence for several long moments, as if deciding whether to lash out physically at the man. Finally, he merely let out an irritable sigh. "Of course she did," he muttered. "She's a professional, after all. Your men were obviously outclassed." He rubbed his forehead resignedly. "And the rest?"

Swallowing with the merest trace of relief, the agent continued, "All of the hostesses employed at the bar are missing from their homes, with indications that they've left the country. That was also found to be the case with Sheska Hamilton, and with Gracia and Elysia Hughes." He paused. "Of course, none of those targets were under our surveillance," he reminded Wrath helpfully.

Wrath grimaced, but seemed unsurprised. "I see," he replied stiffly. Then his eyes found their way back to Hawkeye, whom he'd seemed to have momentarily forgotten. She was having difficulty suppressing a smile, and as he took notice, his fury began to boil once again. He narrowed his eyes as he stared coldly at her, unsmiling. "I have another task for you and your men," he said quietly to the agent, never taking his eyes off her. "There are certain matters at home that I find myself unable to attend to personally. So you will make some…_arrangements_ for my wife." Hawkeye's heart began to hammer with dread.

The homunculus opened his mouth to give the order, but whatever he was planning to say, whatever horrible fate he was contemplating for her at that moment, she would never learn. The ouroboros in his eye shuddered powerfully, and the sentence was choked off before it emerged. Enraged beyond coherence now, Wrath turned and with a wordless shout, slammed his fist down onto his desk with such force that its mahogany surface cracked. Then he closed his eyes, and with visible effort, forced his temper back under control.

When he had regained his composure, he opened his eyes and turned back to the agent, who had watched Wrath's temper tantrum without a ripple in his placid expression. "Your orders," the homunculus continued as if he had never been interrupted. "From now on, the First Lady is under house arrest. She goes nowhere and speaks to no one unless I authorize it. She will be accompanied by bodyguards twenty-four hours a day, even indoors, and your men will maintain strict external surveillance. There will _no failures_ this time. Do you understand?" he spat.

"Understood, _sir_." The agent offered a respectful salute, which Wrath did not bother returning. He turned for the last time to Hawkeye.

"My dear, I am going to leave you tonight. As I stated, I have an important task to attend to in the East." He wore an imperious smile. "Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day. But when the day is over, I will come find you, and we will complete our unfinished business." His smile widened in serene anticipation of the events to come. "Then we will have our own Promised Day." He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving her alone under the beige man's stare.

Hawkeye let her breath out slowly, as relieved by Wrath's departure as she was chilled by his threats. He had taken the bait. The messages she had written about the Joint Exercises "revolt" had all been fake, merely a ruse to get the homunculus out of the city for as long as possible, to buy time for the resistance and allow her to rendezvous with Dr. Marcoh. _It's up to you now, Grandfather_. _Please don't do anything reckless_, she willed silently.

Ignoring the agent's leer, she brushed off her uniform and rearranged her hair neatly back into its clip, then retrieved her handkerchiefs from the floor. It would be all right, she reassured herself. They had a plan; they had planned for all of this. And the gloves were safe. As she folded the initialed squares and tucked them back into the pocket over her heart, she decided that if they were all still alive when this was over, she was going to buy Madam Christmas the biggest bouquet of flowers she could find. Red ones.

* * *

Captain Paul Harris, commander of the honor guard that provided security for the Führer President and his wife, took his responsibilities very seriously. His assigned duties including driving the First Couple to and from work every day, and providing a security escort for the First Lady whenever she went out by herself. The additional protection was necessary, since she had been the subject of kidnapping threats by Anti-Establishment terrorists for several months. (And if no one could explain why she was specifically being targeted, well, who understood anything terrorists did?) While Harris normally only worked during the day, tonight was different. The Führer was leaving to oversee the Joint Exercises in East City, and chatter picked up by counter-insurgency agents indicated that an attempt to kidnap the First Lady could be imminent. Every member of the honor guard had been summoned to duty in response. As his team swept through the Bradley estate, securing entrances and exits, the captain stood at the kitchen table poring over a map of the grounds, double-checking the coverage pattern of their patrol deployment.

Occupied though he was, he could not help but reflect on the strangeness of the First Couple. The First Lady was actually quite pleasant by herself; she would always greet the guards by name, chat with them, even offer to buy them lunch. Protecting her was a genuine pleasure, the one part of his job he looked forward to. But it was a different matter when she and her husband were together. While they were cordial to one another, and even smiled, it was clear that behind the smiles they did not get along at all. The Führer had the air of a man perpetually on the verge of flying into a violent rage at his wife. And the First Lady always eyed her husband as coldly as if he were one of her sniper targets, and she was just waiting for the opportunity to pull the trigger. Being around them gave Harris chills.

The captain was certain that the blame lay squarely on the Führer's shoulders. Besides the fact that he was a generally ill-tempered man, the night duty guards had noted that he spent many nights away from home, no doubt seeking company elsewhere. _What's wrong with him?_ Harris wondered. _If I were lucky enough to have that woman as my wife—_ But he quickly broke off the thought. Letting his mind wander in that direction was unprofessional at best, and possibly treasonous. He forced his attention back to the map.

The First Lady happened to enter the kitchen at the moment, trailed by one the Führer's agents. "Good evening, Captain Harris," she greeted him with her customary cheerfulness, although today he thought he detected a trace of anxiety in her eyes. Behind her, the agent offered a curt nod before slipping wordlessly away. (Good riddance—Harris had little interaction with the mysterious agents, but they always gave him the creeps.)

"Good evening, ma'am," the captain replied pleasantly. "I'm sure you've already been briefed about the increased kidnapping threats. But there's nothing to worry about. My men are completing the new security arrangements now."

She paused for just a moment before nodding. "Good. Could you go over the arrangements with me?" she asked warmly.

"Of course," he answered with a smile. She really was a pleasure to work for. "I've ordered additional guards to patrol the perimeter of the grounds," he assured her as he traced a rough circle on the map. "Beyond that, there are a half-dozen special agents watching from the street. They're hidden, and even we don't know exactly where they are. But you'll be very well protected." As she studied the map intently, Harris marveled at how calm she was. But then, this would be familiar territory for her, since she was not only a soldier, but a former bodyguard with a history of covert field operations to her name. Just by looking at the map, she could probably guess better than he could where the agents would place their lookout posts. Surely that gave her a feeling of comfort.

"And will I go into work tomorrow?" she asked casually, still scrutinizing the map. "Or am I staying here?"

"Our orders are to bring you to military headquarters, but to take you to a secure location in the center of the complex. We've been instructed to bring Mrs. Bradley too, just to be safe. I hope those arrangements won't be a problem, ma'am?"

"I trust my safety entirely to your hands, Captain," she replied, smiling at him so sweetly that he briefly felt his cheeks flush. "I'm sure you've taken every precaution," she continued, her eyes sliding back to the map. "How many guards did you say were on the perimeter, exactly?"


	24. Mission Briefing

Chapter 24: Mission Briefing

The hostess bar, officially closed for renovations, was eerily quiet tonight. Opaque black curtains lay over the windows, blocking out any signs of occupation from the street, and the only light source was a single candle behind the bar. One stubborn customer had managed to find a way inside, however. Madam Christmas poured a glass of whiskey and slid it in front of her.

"You sure this is the place you want to be, sweetie? We don't normally cater to female customers. And all my hostesses are on vacation anyway."

"That's OK. I just need a drink," said the woman with a somber smile. She was clad from head to toe in black, apart from a white cargo jacket marked with smudges of soil and a few clinging dead leaves, as if she had crawled through dirt and bushes to find her way here. Taking a generous swallow of the whiskey, she continued, "Aren't you bartenders supposed to offer a sympathetic ear?"

Madam chuckled. "Sure thing, kid. Tell me your troubles."

The customer sighed. "I've got a mean husband, with a vicious temper. And a bratty thug of a stepson. I dread going home at night." She took another drink. "My boss is a monster, all my friends moved away, and I've even lost my dog."

"Sounds like you could really use a change," Madam told her. "Why don't you leave all that behind, and come work for me? I could always use another pretty blonde."

Hawkeye finished her drink, set down her glass, and smiled. "I think I'll take you up on that offer, Madam."

"Well, come on then, kiddo," said Madam with a husky laugh. "Basement's this way."

* * *

Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Fuery found themselves together in the same room for the first time in nearly six months. But there was little time for a sentimental reunion, and after the briefest of greetings, they got straight to work. They had formulated their strategy in bits and pieces, communicating furtively in pairs over long distances; this was the first time they would be able to review the entire plan together. Now they stood around a table in the basement of Madam's bar, scrutinizing a detailed map of Central City, while Hayate stood guard at their feet.

"There are three levels of threat to contend with," Hawkeye began the briefing. "The most serious enemy, the one at the center pulling all the strings, is a being called Father." She traced a large area on the map encompassing Laboratory 3 and most of the Central Command complex. "We know he's located somewhere in this vicinity, probably close to the center of the complex. And we don't know exactly what he is, just that he's unimaginably powerful. So we're going to leave him to our big guns: the Elric brothers, their father, Scar, Dr. Marcoh, and any other alchemists in their league that they can manage to recruit. Our role will be to cut a path for them"—her hands traced a linear path on the map through the heart of the city—"and keep the rest of the enemy at bay long enough for them to do their work.

"The next level is the homunculi. We started with seven. Now Envy and Gluttony are dead, and Lust is disabled and on her way to Xing." The latter was a stupid and unnecessary risk in Hawkeye's opinion, but it hadn't been her call. "And we've learned that Greed is at least neutral, and might even be persuaded to fight on our side. That still leaves three that we have to deal with: Pride, Sloth and Wrath.

"If we're lucky, the alchemists will get to them first, and will be able to handle them. But we can't count on that. If we do encounter them, they're extremely difficult to kill, so we'll need to train any and all firepower on them, and keep on firing continuously until they die." She paused. "With one exception."

She inhaled deeply. "Our personal stake in this is unimportant. But if we can kill Wrath without hurting the Colonel, we'll meet two strategic objectives: not only will we eliminate a homunculus, but we'll gain another big gun to go after Father. So we're going to make it a top priority." The men were all nodding in agreement. "For that, we're going to need Dr. Marcoh. My primary mission will be to rendezvous with Marcoh and lead him to Wrath, or vice versa." The corners of her mouth twitched in a faint smile. "Since I'm uniquely qualified to serve as bait."

That produced pained expressions from her team members, which she ignored as she continued. "Wrath and Pride are currently in East City. We've given them the strong impression that the North and East divisions will be using the Joint Exercises to launch a coup from East City, and they appear to have fallen for it. Our allies will keep them there as long as possible. The Elrics have already managed to trap Pride, at least for the time being, and General Grumman will handle Wrath." She didn't share her private misgivings about Grumman's intentions. Hawkeye loved her grandfather, but he tended to follow his own agenda, and he held a personal grudge against Wrath. She couldn't shake the suspicion that he might try to take out the homunculus on his own, which could potentially get him killed, jeopardize their plans, or both. In any case, there was nothing she could do if he decided to try.

"Now," she went on, "besides all that, there's still one more level of threat for us to deal with, and it's a big one: the entire Amestrian military."

"Piece of cake," interjected Havoc with a nervous laugh, and they all smiled ruefully in response.

"It sounds insurmountable," Hawkeye countered. "But it's not. They're ordinary soldiers, just like us. There's a dedicated faction that will support the homunculi, but many more will be confused by the fact that the military is fighting within itself, and won't know which side to support. So we've got to get to them first. We need to get our message out there and convince the majority that we're the good guys."

"And we have a plan for that that," added Breda with a cheerfully duplicitous smile. "One that requires the cooperation of the First Lady."

"We'll use Capitol Radio to get the message out," Fuery chimed in. "I know a technician who works there. He says they're bored silly with broadcasting government propaganda, and would do anything for a real news story."

Hawkeye smiled. "I'll be counting on you both. But we can go over that part in more detail later." She turned back to the map. "The rest of it is logistics. We'll have the element of surprise—that will help. Now let's talk firepower, troops, and tactics." The team gathered closer around the table and began to review their maneuvers in more detail.

They had procured as many weapons and as much ammunition as they could manage; much of it was in the process of being distributed to their troops and allies, but some was still en route. Edward's Xingese contacts had provided the arms, but since there was no legal trade treaty between the two countries, they had needed a way to smuggle them over the border. Help with that problem had come from an unlikely source: Havoc's family, who owned a general store in a rural Eastern town, already ran a small but thriving trade in black-market Xingese goods. "Fireworks, Eastern medicine, things like that," Havoc explained cheerfully. "But mostly porn. Nothing really bad! Tasteful, you know—"

"This is _way_ more information than we need, Havoc," interrupted Hawkeye.

They would need a way to communicate and coordinate their efforts, something that their forces could access from anywhere within Central Command without specialized equipment, but which hopefully wouldn't be overheard by the enemy. The major military radio channels would be commandeered by loyalist forces, of course, but there were other frequencies that would likely be ignored during an emergency. The team had settled on the Building Maintenance channel, which was little-used even in normal times, but had a strong signal.

They would also need more soldiers. Some forces had been recruited from the North and East divisions, the equivalent of several platoons. But their numbers were limited, partly because a large drawdown of forces away from the Joint Exercises would attract Wrath's attention, and partly because there weren't many in the ranks that they knew they could trust. However, Hawkeye had devised another way to pad their numbers. In addition to the map of the city, she had charged Fuery with obtaining a diagram of the prison complex adjacent to the former Laboratory 5, together with files on all the Anti-Establishment rebels arrested during the last ten years. A number of cell blocks were circled on the map.

"The Briggs team is conducting the actual jailbreak," said Falman, their liaison to the Northern forces. "They'll move out just before dawn. Since no one knows they're here, they can move around more easily than we can. And no one will be expecting this, so it should be easy for them to get in and out."

Hawkeye added, "Madam Christmas has already communicated with the prisoners, and they understand what they need to do." But she looked up from the map and saw her team members looking at her with uneasy expressions.

"Are you still sure you want to do this, Lieutenant?" Falman continued. "We're talking about terrorists. The same ones we've been rounding up for years. Thugs and killers—of both soldiers and civilians. It's not too late to cancel this part of the operation." This was the first time they had discussed it as a group, and now the others were nodding in agreement with Falman, and beginning to argue the point.

They didn't have time for this. She leaned in and slammed her hands on the table. "Listen to me! I don't like this any more than you do. But we're outgunned and outmanned, and we are the only thing keeping _the entire country_ from being sucked into a giant human transmutation circle, for god knows what purpose. If we had our Flame Alchemist it would be different, but as things stand, we don't have the luxury of the absolute moral high ground." She directed her gaze at Falman. "Do you understand?"

Falman swallowed, and nodded. "And the rest of you?" She looked each of her team members in the eye in turn, producing nods from each one.

She sighed a bit as she continued. "We're only giving them light arms. There will be plenty of military targets, so I don't expect any civilians to be at risk. We're offering them amnesty in return for their help, but we've made it clear that if there are civilian casualties, that deal is off." She paused for a moment, then added more softly. "And they'll be going up against trained soldiers. I don't expect that there will be many left to claim amnesty by the end." Grim though it was, that seemed to settle the rest of the team members' doubts.

They were interrupted by sudden barking from Hayate, and the sound of Madam hurrying down the basement steps. "Pack up your stuff, kids. We've got company." She nodded toward Hawkeye. "Looks like they discovered you were missing, and guessed you'd come here. But these aren't your wide-eyed bodyguard boys. These gentlemen mean business."

"Wrath's agents," Hawkeye concurred. Good; she wouldn't have to feel badly about their deaths.

"The front door is reinforced steel, but that will only buy us a few minutes." Madam handed a detonator to Hawkeye. "As commanding officer, would you like to do the honors?"

Hawkeye nodded. The group gathered up its maps and weapons, and withdrew from the basement room into an adjacent underground service tunnel. "Everybody ready?" she asked. There was a chorus of assents, and she pressed the button. The tunnel shook with concussive force, sending a cloud of dust and bits of plaster raining down from the ceiling. They had planted enough explosives to level the bar and anyone trying to enter. The first salvo in their war had been fired, the first enemy soldiers killed. There would be no going back now.

"Ah, my poor palace," sighed Madam as they continued down the tunnel.

"I'm sorry about this, Madam. I promise we'll make it up you," said Hawkeye.

Madam waved off the apology. "You just get my Roy Boy back to me safely, kiddo, and we'll call it even."

"That's a promise," Hawkeye replied with a smile.

They had come to a juncture in the tunnel. "It's time for me to be on my way," Madam said. "I'll be in Aerugo with my girls by the time the eclipse hits. But first…" She reached into her hip pocket and pulled out a small white package, which she held out to Hawkeye. The ignition gloves. "These are the real deal this time, kid. Sorry for the bait and switch yesterday. Hope it didn't cause you any problems."

Hawkeye shook her head and smiled as she took hold of the package. "Just the opposite, in fact."

"Good. I had a hunch." Madam's eyes glittered with a knowing look. But she hesitated another moment before letting go of the gloves. "You be careful with these, all right?" she murmured, as the two women shared a look of understanding. Hawkeye nodded soberly.

"OK then," Madam continued with a wry smile. "You kids take care, and good luck. I mean it." The soldiers bid the older woman goodbye, as she headed down the southward branch of the tunnel. "And tell Roy he owes me a new bar," she called over her shoulder before turning out of sight.

Hawkeye smiled somberly after her for a moment, then turned back to the rest of the team. They were all looking at her expectantly, waiting for her orders. It was the moment she had dreaded: the moment when she would have to send her closest friends into war. But she had no choice. Now the only thing she could do for them was find the right words to send them off, words they would take with them as they navigated the battlefield for the first time in their lives. Words that might make the difference, in a dark and desperate moment, between giving up hope and living to fight on.

"We all know why we're here," she began calmly. "And we know what we have to do. We've planned every part of this operation as meticulously as possible. Now we only need to carry it out." The men were nodding solemnly.

"We were brought together as a team by one man. And even though he can't be here with us today, I know he would be extremely proud of us." She smiled at each of the men in turn. "As proud as I am of all of you." Her words elicited a mix of grins and embarrassed smiles.

"Now that man is counting on us to complete two very important missions," she continued. "First, we have to continue the work that he started, and stop these inhuman creatures from destroying our country. That is our most important task, and it comes before everything else. Before our own lives, or our friends' and allies' lives, or his. But we're going to carry out that mission successfully." She put every ounce of conviction she could muster into her voice. "_We are going to save Amestris from destruction._ And we're going to survive. _All_ of us." The men were nodding more vigorously, their confidence growing.

"And then we're going to save him." Her voice was determined, her eyes showing fire. "Because we are _damned well_ not leaving him behind!"

"Yes, ma'am!" the men cried in response.

"These are your orders," Hawkeye continued stridently. "Carry out the plan. Protect those below you. And above all, _stay alive_. Whatever happens, hang on and keep fighting." She finished with the words the Colonel had said to them the day he recruited them to his team, her voice building to a shout: "Live, and let's change this country together!"

"_Yes, ma'am!_" the men shouted back.

Now it was time to rejoin the surface, and meet their fates.


	25. War Games

Chapter 25: War Games

Wrath swept up the stairs to the command tower overlooking the Eastern Division live fire exercise range, the black coat over his shoulders flowing like a cape, his entourage trailing behind. He had left his usual cadre of hapless junior officers back in Central, lest they balk at the unpleasant work that needed to be done here; today he was accompanied only by mid-level commanders whose loyalty was unquestioned. Below him on the ground, a dozen agents fanned out among the troops, searching for the instigators of the planned rebellion and clues to their next move. And in the hills just beyond the East City HQ, four well-armed platoons from Central Command waited on standby. As he entered the tower, he found it already occupied by a half dozen Eastern soldiers, including a slight graying figure hunched in a wheelchair.

"Well. What a _surprise_ to see you here, Grumman," the homunculus snapped sarcastically as he returned the men's salutes.

"Not to worry, Führer President, _sir_. I'm only here in a ceremonial capacity." The lieutenant general smiled officiously and gestured at his useless legs. "I'm still on medical leave, after all."

Wrath narrowed his eyes. "Which is odd, since I distinctly remember signing your discharge papers. What was it, five months ago?"

"Oh?" The gray eyebrows shot up. "I don't remember seeing those. Maybe that aide of yours misplaced them."

"I had them couriered personally."

"Then they must have gotten lost somewhere along the way. You know the military." The old man wasn't even trying to hide his grin.

The homunculus flashed a humorless smirk, imagining how satisfying it would be to bury his sword in Grumman's neck. Satisfying, but regrettably impractical. Besides the fact that the old man would be under Mustang's protection (was there _anyone_ he was allowed to punish?!), the action would no doubt bring the entire Eastern Division down on Wrath's head, if not the North as well. And he wasn't here to lay waste to entire armies, only as many instigators as it took to stop the revolt. He was under orders to preserve as many souls as possible for the eclipse.

That meant there was little for Wrath to do personally until his agents ferreted out the ringleaders. So for the moment he simply waited, his attention drifting down to the field below where the two armies stood in parade formation, just finishing the opening ceremony for the Joint Exercises. It was admittedly quite a sight. On the left-hand side of the field stood 5,000 Northern troops, their blue uniforms augmented with bright red armbands; facing them on the right was an equal number of their Eastern counterparts, accented in yellow.

Grumman chuckled beside him. "Look at them. All lined up like pieces on a chessboard. That takes you back, doesn't it?" Wrath ignored him.

"But then, you were always a surprisingly bad chess player, Mustang," the older man continued. "I never understood it. You had the strategy down, but you were never willing to sacrifice enough of your pieces to win."

Wrath glanced over at him sharply. Was this merely idle reminiscence, or was there some deeper meaning to the words? He offered an indulgent smirk, playing along. "Surrendering too many of them is a lazy way to play. I never feel I've won properly without keeping hold of my important pieces." He narrowed his gaze in Grumman's direction, and added meaningfully, "Especially my queen."

The older man paused for a moment, then nodded sagely. "The queen is important," he concurred, meeting Wrath's eye with a level gaze of his own. "But you can't always spare everyone. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good."

Wrath's glare bored into the older man, as he felt his breathing begin to quicken in anger. What exactly was he implying? Was he threatening Riza in some way? "I don't have time to play your game today, old man," he snarled. "I'm here to observe the Joint Exercises. And rest assured that I will be watching _very_ closely." He turned on his heel and strode out, fists clenched in rage. It was extremely unlikely that Grumman would be willing to hurt his own granddaughter, but the mere suggestion had nearly led Wrath to throttle him on the spot. Best to keep his distance. Whatever the old man was plotting, his agents would find out.

He walked to the tower's parapet and leaned with his elbows propped on the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing in the cool morning air. Once his anger had cooled, he opened his eyes and resumed watching the soldiers below. By now they had broken parade formation and were assembling for the first day's exercise, a controlled exchange of artillery barrages. He could clearly make out the call-and-response of the troops as they began to drag their cannons into place. Ah, he had missed this—he had always been exceedingly proud of his soldiers, and loved seeing them at work.

As Führer President, watching the annual demonstration of his nation's military might had been one of his favorite pastimes, and he was pleased to be able to see it one last time. Even if it was just play, a pretend war for toy soldiers. It was a shame that there would be no more real wars. He still held fond memories of the glory days of past battles he had led: Fortsett in the south, Pendleton to the west, and especially Ishval in the east. Ishval had been truly glorious, a symphony of military violence that had sustained itself for years, with a crescendo of pure annihilation that had lasted for months. And he had been its conductor, at the center of it all. He smiled warmly at the memory…

No, the _memories_. He remembered Ishval from two very different perspectives, since his human host had also been there as a State Alchemist. He felt his smile fade. Mustang had been one of the most powerful alchemists in the war, the pinnacle of destructive power on the battlefield, delivered with his own hands. Wrath should be able to bask in the pride and glory of those memories. And yet he felt…shame? How strange, and how irritating.

Steering his mind away from the thought, he turned his attention back to the armies below him. Yes, he was proud of his military. But this would be his last time seeing them in action, even in a pretend war. By the end of the day, all his toy soldiers would be dead, along with the entire nation of Amestris. That was, after all, the purpose for which they had been created: to be sacrificed for Father's perfection on the Promised Day.

After they were gone, Wrath would still be here. He would still be needed, since Father would never stop in his quest for power. There would be other nations to conquer, other wars to enjoy, other Promised Days. But there would never be another Amestris. The nation that he had built and ruled with his own hands as Führer President Bradley, the country that Mustang had vowed to protect with his life. By sundown it would be gone forever. And for one unguarded moment, that thought made Wrath very angry indeed.

* * *

By midmorning, Grumman had ceded the command tower to Wrath—being in the same room as that abomination made him nauseous—and retired to the officers' tent down in the field. The Spring day was growing rapidly warmer, and now he waved a small Xingese fan in one hand to cool himself, while his other hand absently smoothed the fabric of the gray military-issue blanket he kept draped over his legs despite the heat. He knew that behind his back, even his most loyal men whispered pityingly about his twisted and useless limbs, which no doubt grew more monstrous in their imaginations with each retelling. It had been difficult enough to resign himself to using a wheelchair. The men could gossip all they liked, but he was damned if he was going to let them gawk.

His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat, although that was less from the weather or the blanket than from anxiety. No matter how well a thing was planned, there were always too many variables that could go wrong, and the stakes this time were astronomical. "I can't take this anymore," he grumbled to Major Miles, the white-haired Briggs commander who was sharing the tent with him. "Let's just aim all the cannons at the tower and be done with it, eh?" He was only half-joking.

"Please stop saying that, sir," muttered Miles. "That's not part of the plan. And he can probably outrun cannon fire anyway."

"True," Grumman sighed.

They were working to keep the homunculus isolated and contained for as long as possible. Before dawn, Grumman's men had severed the phone and telegraph trunk lines connecting East City to Central and South Cities, which meant that contact with the capitol could only be made via the North City communications relay held by their allies. The Führer would hear nothing from headquarters except what they wanted him to hear. At the same time, the North and East armies would string him along by continuing to pretend their "revolt" was imminent.

He'd had fun planning that part. Wrath's agents would find the troops engaging in an extensive round of illegal betting on the Joint Exercises. Bookmaking sheets with statistics for key officers —target shooting accuracy rates, numbers of simulated kills from past exercises, etc.—were circulating widely among the ranks, and to the suspicious mind, it would look like the perfect cover for passing coded messages. Indeed, when the agents looked more closely, they would find that one out of every twenty sheets contained just such a message, each an ambiguous phrase that suggested coordinates or directions for troop movements. The messages were nonsense, but they would look real enough to keep Wrath's people running in circles for hours. Grumman chortled silently to himself; he did love a good stratagem.

But the homunculus would eventually catch on that it was a ruse, and when he tried to leave, the next step in the plan was to detonate the railroad bridge over Lake Optain, trapping his train on the East City side. With the most direct route cut off, Wrath and his men would have to circle around the huge lake, adding some 70 miles to their journey back to Central City. Meanwhile, the North and East forces would mobilize across temporary bridges they'd deployed in secret, and beat them there.

It was their agreed-upon strategy: to delay Wrath as long as possible, but leave him alive. That had been Riza's doing. Any attempt to kill him through military means would almost certainly fail, she had insisted. Even if they were successful, killing Mustang would mean the waste of a valuable asset, since they would need every powerful alchemist they could get their hands on to have a chance of defeating Father. She had argued strenuously that letting Wrath return to Central, where Dr. Marcoh could deal with the homunculus without killing the man, was their best option. And somehow she'd managed to convince Major General Armstrong to go along with it. Grumman frowned at the memory; he had strongly disagreed, but he'd been outvoted.

Now he pushed the thought from his mind and shifted in his wheelchair. Something had caught his eye. Major General Hakuro, the Führer's top man in the East (and longtime pain in Grumman's ass), was making his way to the command tower, trailed by two of his subordinates. "Heads up, Major," Grumman told Miles sharply, pointing as Hakuro disappeared through the tower door. "This might be trouble."

As if on cue, the radio next to him crackled to life. "General Grumman, sir! Corporal Ferguson of the 7th Platoon here. We're coming under fire at the Evergreen Reservoir. Request instructions, sir!" Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the background.

"Stand by, Corporal," Grumman answered tersely. His eyes met the major's. There were only a handful of troops at the reservoir, but it was a key staging area for deploying their temporary bridges.

"I'll send some men to assist," Miles declared, picking up his own radio.

Grumman shook his head emphatically, stopping him. "It's got to be Hakuro's men. And if they're attacking the reservoir, they've probably intercepted our communications. We need radio silence, Major."

Miles paused for a moment before nodding. "I'll see to it personally, sir," he answered briskly. He gave a quick salute and strode out of the tent, frowning.

Grumman stared after him thoughtfully. _He doesn't completely trust me_, he thought with a touch of indignation as he resumed waving his fan. _He's smarter than I thought._

* * *

Lounging in the command tower, watching the noonday sun beat down over the soldiers and their cannon drills, Wrath's impatience was growing. His agents had found a large number of coded communications being passed among the troops, but had been unable to make any sense of them thus far. The point would likely be moot before long. If the traitors expected to march their armies on the capitol before the eclipse, they would need to mobilize soon. He still hoped to deal with the problem quietly before it got to that point; but either way, he was anxious to conclude matters here and return to Central Command.

At least some communications with Central City had finally been restored. The trunk lines to Central and South Cities were still down, but in the last half hour, General Radcliffe's men had seized back control of the North City communications relay, executing the rebellious Northern troops who were holding it. News from the capitol was expected at any moment.

His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the tower's entrance. Major General Hakuro had appeared. "Your Excellency!" he saluted, excitement in his voice. "I've received critical intel on General Grumman's activities!"

Wrath narrowed his eyes; he had no love for Hakuro, a petty tyrant who had made life hell for both Grumman and Mustang back in the day. But the man was useful. "Proceed," the homunculus snapped.

"The Joint Exercises are just a diversion, Your Excellency. The true revolt is already underway in Central, even as we speak. The plan is for Major General Armstrong to lead part of it, and…" He paused and swallowed nervously. "…the First Lady is leading the other part, sir."

Wrath sat straight up in his chair and swore violently. He pointed at a random officer: "You—get on the comm to North City _NOW_ and find out where my wife is!" Paling, the man saluted and ran from the tower.

Within two minutes, the officer returned looking even paler. "Sir, there are reports that the First Lady has gone missing. There are fears that she's been kidnapped—" But Wrath, white with fury, was already up and moving.

"Get the troops back on the train. We're leaving—_now!_" he yelled at his officers. "Hakuro, have your men detain General Grumman and Major Miles, and anyone else you see fit. Hold them and wait for further orders."

"With pleasure, sir!" Hakuro called after him with a smirk, saluting as the Führer disappeared through the door.

Wrath strode down the tower stairs, mentally calculating the most efficient way to get back to Central. The train would be slower than he liked, but the mountainous Eastern terrain would be tricky for him to navigate on foot at the speeds he travelled. He would ride with his men initially, he decided, then break away on his own once they reached the flatlands, a little ways past Lake Optain.

And then he would deal with his wife's rebellion, once and for all. _Wait for me, Riza,_ he thought with a sinister smile. _I'll be home soon._

* * *

Miles sped his military jeep as fast as it would go down the gravel road leading back to the exercise field. None of the soldiers within view were exhibiting unusual behavior, but he knew that something was very wrong.

He had hastily mobilized some of his own men to provide backup at the reservoir, but when they had arrived, there had had been no enemy in sight. Corporal Ferguson had calmly reported that his squad had run off the attackers. But there had been no evidence of a firefight: no wounded men, no physical damage to the surrounding rocks and trees, not even a single bullet to show that shots had been fired in the Eastern troops' direction. And they had seemed utterly unconcerned that whoever had attacked them might return in greater numbers. Certain now that the whole thing had been a ruse, Miles had rushed his men back to camp, fearing an ambush.

The ambush never came, but radio chatter from the Eastern HQ brought more worrisome news. Twenty minutes ago, the Führer and his support troops had abruptly boarded their train and headed back to the capitol. It was time—past time—to blow the bridge over Lake Optain, but there had been no explosion from that direction, no evidence that the plan was being carried out.

Miles squealed the jeep to a halt outside the command tent and leapt out with the engine still running, the cannons from the exercise field booming over his head. He kept one hand on his sidearm. Had Grumman been captured? Was he already dead? Heart pounding, he ran into the tent—

And found the old man still sitting peacefully in his wheelchair, fanning himself.

"Grumman!" Miles yelled, furious. "What the hell is going on? The Führer is on his way back to Central—why haven't you blown the bridge?!"

The lieutenant general held up his free hand toward Miles. "Just wait a moment, please, Major. It's almost time." He gestured toward the radio next to him, which crackled on an open channel.

"Approaching," reported a man's voice, as a long train whistle signaled in the background. After a moment he added, "The sheep are in position. Target is stopping."

Miles gaped at the old man as realization dawned. "You're not just going to blow the bridge," he said slowly, "you're going to blow the whole damned train!" A smile was spreading across the old man's lips. Miles exclaimed in horror, "General, that's not part of the pla—" But his words were drowned out by the sound of an explosion so loud that it rattled the radio speaker, while simultaneously echoing more quietly through the air beyond their camp.

The major ran outside of the tent, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand while he scanned the horizon in the direction of the lake. There it was, a column of black smoke rising in the distance. In the field beside him, cannons continued to boom, the troops operating them oblivious to Grumman's handiwork.

Miles stomped back into the tent. "What the hell was that, Grumman?" he demanded.

The old man was still smiling. "I apologize for the wild goose chase, Major. But I couldn't be sure how you would react to my change of plans." He continued fanning himself calmly. "Major Miles, sometimes soldiers, even exemplary ones, have personal feelings that keep them from doing what needs to be done. When that happens, it's the duty of the next solider to step in and do it for them." His smile faded. "Please understand, I took no joy in this. Colonel Mustang was like family to me. But Wrath was the enemy, and he needed to die."

The radio crackled. "Confirmation, sir. The lambs on the bridge have been led to slaughter. We're continuing on to the reservoir as planned."

Grumman nodded to himself with grim satisfaction. "Affirmative. Good work."

Miles swallowed. "I sincerely hope you made the right call, sir."

"So do I," Grumman admitted softly. Then he set aside his fan and pushed the blanket off of his legs, his cheerful smile returning. "Now let's get back to work, shall we?" And to Miles' astonishment, he stood up from the wheelchair and walked with no difficulty out of the tent.

"Your legs—" the major gasped after him.

"Oh yes," he called over his shoulder. "That Dr. Marcoh fellow came by and fixed me up a few months ago. Very pleasant chap. I couldn't let anyone know, of course." Grumman paused outside the tent to watch as Major General Hakuro was escorted away in handcuffs, struggling and cursing, by the same soldiers who had accompanied him to the tower. "I've had his subordinates on my payroll for awhile," he chortled to Miles. "Radcliffe's men in the North, too. They fed Hakuro what I wanted him to hear, and he played right into our hands." Once the major general was past, Grumman mounted the steps to the command tower.

"So what now?" demanded Miles in amazement, finding that he had to hurry to catch up with the older man's quick stride.

"I'll order some of my men to drag the river. I won't be able to relax until I see the corpse with my own eyes. And I'll keep a couple of platoons on patrol, just in case. The rest of the Eastern forces will be yours to command."

"Then you're not coming with us to Central as planned, General?" the major asked.

Grumman shook his head. "Just in case he's still out there. I'm not taking any chances." He paused, then let out a regretful sigh. "And if he is dead…between you and me, Major Miles, I'm not quite ready to face my granddaughter yet." He smiled sadly at the Briggs soldier. "If you see Lieutenant Hawkeye, please tell her that I'm very, very sorry."


	26. Signals

Chapter 26: Signals

Fuery sat back, brushed a trickle of perspiration from his forehead and surveyed his work. Their team had commandeered Capitol Radio's backup antenna, and he had just finished installing the transmitter and receiver that would allow them to broadcast on the military's Building Maintenance channel. The original channel's range didn't extend far past the Central Command complex itself, but his modifications would expand the signal to cover the entire city. He would use that ability to coordinate communications among the resistance forces from here.

"Did you adjust the modulation?" his friend Teague, the technician who worked for the radio station, piped up nervously from over his shoulder. It was the third time he had asked.

"Doing it now," Fuery responded patiently, making a few adjustments to a diode. His friendship with Teague had gotten the team an audience with the station's producer. _The scoop of the century, _they had promised. _All we need is an hour of airtime and the use of your backup antenna. _Once they had learned that the First Lady was involved, the producer and his staff had jumped at the offer. It was only now—Fuery could see the evidence written on his friend's face—that they were beginning to question just what kind of bargain they had made.

He finished his adjustments, then picked up the handset and spoke a test message: "Commissary, do you read?" For now they were still using code names; it was a live military channel, and until the battle started, Building Maintenance personnel might be listening in.

_"Commissary here,"_ came the response. It was Falman, holed up with the Northern Division troops in the basement of the Armstrong mansion, which had been left unsupervised as Wrath's agents searched frantically for Hawkeye. Weapons and equipment had already been smuggled in piecemeal over the last few months. _"We're just assembling a few last pipes. How are things going in Sanitation?"_

"We're all set," Fuery responded. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "The crew is just about to start mopping."

_"Affirmative—and good luck."_

Fuery swallowed anxiously; in a few minutes, all hell was going to break loose. Beside him, Teague remained silent, his face ghostly white. He looked for all the world as if he'd just found himself at the center of a hurricane, with no idea how to get out. _Buddy_, thought Fuery, _I know just how you feel._

* * *

Inside the broadcast booth, Breda clutched his sidearm and stood guard by the door. Besides their own team members, a dozen East City support troops guarded doors, windows, and other weak points throughout the building, but he was still jumpy. They had waited until late morning to ensure that they had the largest possible audience for their announcement. Once Hawkeye started speaking, they wouldn't have much time.

The radio announcer was a pudgy balding man with a beard and glasses—Grayson something, Breda vaguely recalled. "Good morning, people of Central City," he began the broadcast. "As you know, we awoke today to the shocking news that Lieutenant Riza Mustang, First Lady of this great nation, had gone missing from her home despite heavy security, and was believed to have been kidnapped by terrorists. We also learned that all communication to East City, the current location of Führer President Mustang, has been mysteriously cut off." He licked his lips, clearly relishing this moment. "But now, we have an _exclusive _Capitol Radio update. The First Lady is right here in our studio, safe and sound, sitting across the table from me at this very moment! Ma'am, would you please confirm that for our listeners?"

Hawkeye was sitting stiffly in her chair, one hand anxiously stroking Hayate at her side. She leaned into the microphone hanging over the table and spoke, softly and haltingly. "Good morning. My name is Lieutenant Riza Haw—uh, Mustang. And I wasn't kidnapped. I left home of my own free will."

Over her shoulder, Breda swore silently. She was nervous. _You can do this, Hawkeye. Just stick to the script._

"And she has come to our station this morning with an urgent announcement," continued the announcer. "We at Capitol Radio don't know what it is, but we've been told it's something that the entire country needs to hear." He paused. "Ma'am, would you please continue?"

Hawkeye nodded, quietly cleared her throat, and resumed speaking. "At this moment, there is a plot underway to overthrow the Führer President. The coup is being carried out by generals at the highest level of Central Command." Her moment of stage fright seemed to have passed, and her voice grew stronger and more confident. "The Führer is not aware of this plot. The conspirators include his closest advisers, who have been deceiving him for some time. They've cut off communications with East City to keep us from warning him."

Reassured now, Breda nodded to himself, silently reciting the words of the script as she continued. It had to be this story. Wrath might be cruel and ill-tempered in private, but his public face was all Roy Mustang: young, handsome, brave, and utterly charming. The people loved their new Führer President, and would naturally rally against anyone they believed to be threatening him. And they loved his shy, pretty wife just as much. Did she know that? he wondered. While she was locked up in that house and blockaded by bodyguards, had she had time to notice how the society pages of the newspaper gushed over her, how women copied her clothing and hairstyle—the number of hairclips he'd seen in West City alone!—and how there had even been an uptick in young women applying to join the military? The First Lady was famous, she was admired, and she was loved. Most importantly, she was trusted. That was why it had to be her on that microphone.

"We don't have much time," she continued briskly. "They'll be sending soldiers here to silence me. They'll tell you that I'm insane, or that I've been misled by traitors, or that I'm a traitor myself. But it isn't true. All I want is to protect my husband and the people of this country." She paused. "These are the men I know of who are part of this treasonous plot," she went on. "Lieutenant General Gardner. Brigadier General Clemin. Brigadier General Edison…" She continued listing more than two dozen names she had gleaned from eavesdropping on Wrath in his study.

She was in full control now, her shoulders square, her voice calm and self-assured. Breda felt himself smile. As a soldier, Hawkeye had always displayed determination and a quiet confidence in her own abilities. But in the past eight months he had watched her assume a new quality: command. He knew she had taken up the responsibility reluctantly, and at first she had worn it uncomfortably, like an ill-fitting coat. But with each passing hour, the fit was growing better.

"These are very serious allegations," the announcer responded when she had finished. "Do you have proof? How did you learn of this plot?" The words _sending soldiers here _had spooked him, it was clear from his face, but his voice remained completely calm. He was a professional.

"The plot was uncovered by Lieutenant General Grumman and Major General Armstrong, of the Eastern and Northern Divisions respectively. They have both moved forces into Central City to protect us." Hawkeye leaned closer to the microphone, her voice growing more urgent, more earnest. "And now this is the most important part of my message. I am calling on every soldier in Central Command who loves this country to help us bring down the traitors. Do _not _obey the orders of your commanders to attack us!"

Breda was grinning now. She was selling it. Their plan was going to work—he was certain of it.

* * *

Out in the hallway, Havoc stood guard by the second-floor window, anxiously surveying the street below as Hawkeye's words echoed through the building. While he couldn't see her from his vantage point, he could clearly make out Breda, who was nodding and smiling to himself as he listened to his script unfold. Havoc wished he shared his teammate's confidence. His right hand clutched a detonator, and beads of sweat dripped down his face and neck. The troops from Central would be here any minute.

The team had blockaded the streets around the radio station building before dawn. They were in the middle of the warehouse district—a lucky break—so there was little danger of civilian casualties from the explosives they had planted. But that didn't make him feel any better about the possibility of using them on their own comrades. His mind flashed to his old academy buddies who'd been posted to Central Command. Hutchison, LaMonte, Finley…would they be here today? Would he have to face them in battle?

He would find out soon enough; from down the block came the rumble of military transport trucks. They were here. His heart pounded as he watched the trucks pull up to their blockades and stop, watched the soldiers begin to spill out and form up for an assault, turning the sunlit street into a sea of blue uniforms. Havoc used his left hand to signal to Breda: two platoons—no, three. Breda's smile faded as he nodded grimly, then made the same sign in Hawkeye's direction.

Havoc cursed in frustration. Three platoons was three dozen men. He didn't recognize any faces, but they were probably all ordinary schmucks just like him, guys who'd signed up for the military with no idea who was pulling the strings, following orders they had no idea were evil.

Hawkeye's voice still resounded, continuing her plea for the Central Command troops to stand down. "I recognize that this is a difficult situation for you to be in. As a soldier myself, I understand that better than you'll ever know." The broadcast was playing not only throughout the building, but outside it as well, through a loudspeaker that could be plainly heard by the attacking soldiers. "So here is what I'm asking: if you can't bring yourself to join the North and East, if you're confused and don't know what to do, then do nothing. Point your guns toward the ground and step back. If you don't fire your weapon, our forces will _not _attack you."

As the troops stood in formation with rifles aimed forward, Havoc watched many of them begin to crane their necks, paying attention to her words, until their commanding officer emerged through the lines and yelled something at them. Chastened, the men resumed staring down their barrels. But wait—it couldn't be! He recognized the commanding officer. It was Major Bertels, his marksmanship instructor from the academy. He'd been a tough instructor, but a good man—they'd all loved Bertels. Havoc's stomach tightened at the thought that he might have to kill his former teacher. Or vice versa.

The loudspeaker echoed: "Trust in me, as a fellow soldier and the Führer President's wife. Allow us to defend the country from these traitors!"

Every second seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. In the street, the troops stood waiting in formation. Bertels was holding his right arm up in the air, palm bladed; when he pointed his hand forward, it would be the signal for the troops to lay down a blanket of fire and rush the building. And then Havoc would blow the detonator.

"More is riding on your actions than you can possibly imagine," Hawkeye continued. "The future of Amestris—your future, and future of everyone you love—will be determined by what you do here today. Your choice, as an individual."

Havoc's heart still hammered against his ribcage, his mind numb with dread. But her words, and her cool and steady voice, reassured him somehow. He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed. Awful things might happen here today. He might have to kill good men, and he might die, together with his teammates—his friends. But whatever happened, they would get Hawkeye out first. She would get to Central Command and save the Colonel, and he would stop the world from ending. And it would be all right. Even if the rest of them died, if they could save all those civilian lives, and Mustang and Hawkeye along with them, then it would be worth it.

Through the loudspeaker, Hawkeye's voice rang out: "Soldiers of Central Command, _we are not your enemy!"_

The eternal seconds continued to grind by. But somewhere amid the numbness, Havoc realized that the men still weren't moving. Bertels still held his arm up in the air—he was hesitating. More agonizing moments passed. Then very slowly, Havoc watched him close his palm into a fist and lower his arm. He turned his head and barked an unknown order at his troops. And one by one, they began to point their guns at the ground.

Havoc nearly choked with relief. It had worked—they were standing down! He had never grinned so hard in his life as he flashed a thumbs up to Breda, who grinned back and passed the signal on to Hawkeye. Impossibly, they had won a reprieve. The Central Command troops—at least these troops, at this moment—were giving them a chance.

* * *

The relief and happiness inside the broadcast booth was palpable. It was also short-lived. Not two minutes later, a white-faced technician quietly walked up to the announcer and handed him a piece of paper. Grayson scanned it quickly, swallowed, then turned to his microphone.

"We have just received a shocking piece of news via North City," he reported somberly. "The Führer's train was attacked on the way back from the Eastern HQ. There was an explosion on the railroad bridge over Lake Optain, and the train was destroyed." His voice caught, but he cleared his throat and continued. "No one has been able to locate the Führer. Everyone aboard is presumed to have been killed."

Breda felt a sudden sensation of numbness as the blood drained from his face. No. It couldn't be—it just wasn't possible. The Colonel was _dead?_ When they were so close to saving him? That just couldn't happen—! His eyes met Havoc's out in the hall, saw the same shock and disbelief mirrored back at him. They traveled next to Hawkeye, who sat in stunned silence, eyes staring unfocused at the air in front of her. _Oh god, _he thought with his heart sinking,_ Hawkeye…_

After a few moments the announcer continued speaking, filling the silence. "To those of you listening, I regret to tell you that the First Lady has just learned of this tragic news along with the rest of us." He added softly, "Ma'am, I am so sorry."

She was shaking her head slowly. "I knew this would happen," she mumbled. Breda heard her add in a whisper, "Grandfather, you goddamned _fool_," as her head sank into her hands, hiding her face. After several moments, her shoulders began visibly shaking.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" the announcer asked gently. "I know I speak for all of us when I say that you have our deepest condolences—"

Hawkeye jerked her head back up, ignoring him. She was laughing. "_You idiots!_" she shouted, a nearly maniacal gleam in her eyes. "He's not going to die that easily!" She stood up so abruptly that she knocked over her chair behind her. "He's coming here, _now_. We need to be ready," she called over her shoulder to Breda as she strode out of the broadcast booth, motioning for Havoc to follow them.

"Ma'am!" the wide-eyed announcer called after her. "Ma'am…!" The producer was signaling frantically for him to say something, anything, to continue the broadcast. Finally Grayson turned back and grabbed the microphone.

"Uh, what you've just heard is the sound of the First Lady, uh, becoming hysterical and _fainting in shock _at the news of the attack on the Führer President!"

* * *

Havoc had to move quickly to keep up with Hawkeye as she marched out of the building. The news about the Colonel's train had hit the rest of them like a punch to the gut, but she had dismissed it with a wave. "Wrath can outrun bullets. There's no way something like that could kill him," she had snapped impatiently. But he could tell that she had been badly rattled by the news. Even if she really wasn't worried for Mustang, she must at least be concerned about her grandfather. There had been no news about him thus far.

They had taken half the East City support troops with them, but left their teammates behind: Fuery to coordinate radio communications, Breda to manage public relations, Hayate to stand guard for homunculi. Now they approached the Central Command troops, waiting by the barricade with guns still pointed at the ground. Havoc's eyes met those of the commander, who gave a silent nod of recognition at his former student. "We need to get through," Hawkeye informed him calmly.

Bertels hesitated just a moment. Then barked "Yes, ma'am!" with a crisp salute—merely a courtesy, since he outranked her—and added, "Lieutenant Mustang, you have our sincere condolences at the loss of your husband." The rest of the men gravely copied his salute. She swallowed, nodded somberly, and returned the gesture.

_They think she's the Führer's widow_, Havoc mused as the troops parted their formation to let them pass. If they hadn't believed her words before, the news of Mustang's death had surely convinced them. And she was the bereaved wife of their fallen, beloved commander...right now, she could probably ask these men for anything and get it.

The thought had occurred to Hawkeye as well. When they were through the line, she turned back to address the Central Command troops. "Thank you for letting me pass," she said clearly. "You understand now that we're facing a grave threat, from evil men who want to destroy this country. My husband died trying to stop them." She took a slightly ragged breath. "Now I'm asking all of you to help me see that his death wasn't in vain. Will you do that for me?"

A muted chorus of "Yes, ma'am!" emerged from the crowd. "What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?" Bertels asked.

She pointed back at the radio station building behind them. "The traitors in Central Command sent you here to kill the people inside this building. When they realize you haven't followed those orders, more troops will come. But these people need to be protected at all costs." She paused. "Will you protect them?"

"Yes, ma'am!" shouted the Central City troops with more enthusiasm, no hesitation evident now. (_When the hell did she get so good at this? _marveled Havoc.) Hawkeye spoke a few more words of gratitude and encouragement, and the rest of them moved out, the teammates behind them guarded by three dozen new protectors.

They had survived the first skirmish, but as the Promised Day wore on, things would only get more dangerous. As they marched on toward Central Command, its citadel just coming into view in the distance, one fact in particular worried Havoc. "Hey, Boss," he said to Hawkeye, "I hope to hell you're right about the Colonel still being alive. But if he is...what's going to happen when Wrath gets back here, and everybody figures out we're not really on his side?"

She looked straight ahead, her eyes fixed on their destination. "We'll do what we always do," she replied, her mouth set in a grim line. "We'll improvise."


	27. Living Dolls

Chapter 27: Living Dolls

By noon, the streets of Central City were crawling with soldiers. Ten-year-old May Chang avoided them carefully, keeping to back streets as she threaded her way through the busy downtown, then veered off into the more sparsely populated industrial district. In her arms she carried a large glass jar, all but the bottom inch covered by a shroud that hid its contents from prying eyes.

Inside the jar, the doll-like creature that had once been the homunculus Lust peered out from under the cloth. The humans had been diabolically clever, she was forced to admit. Not only had they stripped away her beautiful body, the primary source of her power, but they had handed her over to the one who was least likely to be affected by whatever remained of her charms: a sexually immature female. Then they had dispatched the little girl home to Xing, as far from Father and the other homunculi as it was possible to get, where Lust was to spend the rest of her days being poked and probed by scientists searching for the key to immortality.

No matter. Lust might be without her usual skills, but she had learned to adapt. After all, there were many different kinds of seduction.

"This is _so_ noble of you," the homunculus purred to her captor, the sarcasm evident in her small voice. "You could have been safely in Xing by now, if you hadn't insisted on running back here to join your friends. Even though you're too little and weak to be any of use to them." She added with a sneer, "I hope your beloved _Alphonse_ appreciates your devotion."

"Quiet, old lady," the girl snapped crossly, heading into an alley. "This has nothing to do with you. You're only here because I don't know where else to put you. And when I'm done, you're still coming with me to Xing." Inside the dimness of the alley, the child located a metal barred door, which she opened and slipped through. From her vantage point in the glass jar, the homunculus recognized the entrance to the conduit system leading to Father's chamber.

Lust's tiny face hid a smile. Her taunts were a calculated lie; though the girl was small, she was anything but weak, a talented alchemist and fierce martial artist with courage that far exceeded her size. But if you wanted to seduce a human into doing something you wanted, and you had nothing to entice them with, the next best thing was to manipulate them into thinking it was their own idea. And what Lust had wanted was to be returned home, where she could rejoin her family, regain her lost powers, and take revenge on the humans who had humiliated her so thoroughly.

The metal door swung shut with a creak behind them, while back out in the street, a military truck rumbled up and blocked off the alley's entrance. _There's no going back now, little May Chang_, Lust grinned with satisfaction as they headed into the darkened conduit. It was almost a pity. The fierce little girl would grow up to be a magnificent woman, if she weren't going to die here today.

* * *

Half an hour later in another alley a block away, Edward Elric held a military-issue radio and spun the dial to the frequency he'd been instructed. At the either end of the alley stood the chimeras Jerso and Zampano, keeping watch.

"Building Maintenance," Edward spoke hesitantly into the comm, "do you read? This is the Cafeteria."

The radio crackled. _"We read you, Cafeteria,"_ came the response. It was Sergeant Major Fuery's voice. _"What's your status?"_

Edward glanced at Dr. Marcoh next to him. "Uh, the Head Chef is here, waiting for instructions." The young alchemist understood the need to be discreet, but he felt stupid using such lame code words.

_"Affirmative. We're still waiting for our dinner guest to arrive. Stay in touch, and we'll let you know when we need the chef's specialty."_

"All right. In the meantime we'll, uh, keep working on the main course," Edward signed off, feeling like an idiot.

"Bad news, kid," he heard a voice from behind him. The other chimera in their group, Darius, had appeared together with Hohenheim, Scar, and Lan Fan. "We scoped out the next block. The military's planted a checkpoint in front of that alley, and it's swarming with armed guards. We're not getting into Father's lair that way."

"What will we do now?" asked Lan Fan, her voice measured.

Edward sighed and rubbed his forehead. "All right, I know another place where we can sneak in," he answered. "We're not far from Laboratory 3. The basement has an entrance into Father's complex. Al told me how to find it."

As they walked through the city, taking alleys and back roads to avoid being spotted by the military, Edward grimaced to himself, his mood darkened by the reminder of his brother. He had finally been reunited with Alphonse for the first time in months, only to be forced to leave him behind in an Ishvalan slum outside of the city. The younger brother had used himself as bait to trap Pride; now both were imprisoned under an earthen dome made impenetrable by Hohenheim's alchemy.

"Are you worried about Alphonse?" Hohenheim prompted gently. Edward swallowed and nodded, avoiding his father's gaze. "He's strong," Hohenheim continued, "and the enemy considers him too precious to kill. I'm certain he'll be OK."

"I hope you're right," muttered Edward. He sighed unhappily. "I just wish you'd been able to teach him your technique, Doc," he addressed Marcoh. "If Al knew how to destroy a Philosopher's Stone, he could have taken care of Pride then and there."

Marcoh's face clouded. "I wish that too. If we'd only had more time…" But Edward knew it had been no use. Their group had run themselves ragged, travelling all over the country in only four months in a desperate attempt to create a counter to Father's nationwide transmutation circle. They had made it—but just barely. There would have been no time for the intense studying, concentration and practice that learning another high-level alchemy technique would have required. "We did try," Marcoh added. "Alphonse is a brilliant alchemist. But it was too difficult for me to teach someone who didn't have...familiarity with creating the stones." The elder alchemist stared guiltily at the transmutation circle tattooed on the palm of his right hand. Edward shuddered inwardly; he didn't like remembering that the kindly old man's expertise had come with a devastating human price.

They were almost to the laboratory now, separated from it only by a public park. As they crossed the grass, Edward reflected that his own expertise—being able to perform alchemy through clapping instead of drawing a transmutation circle, a skill that had saved his life many times—had also come with a high price, albeit a less evil one than Marcoh's. Both he and Alphonse could do so only because they had committed the ultimate taboo, performing human transmutation in a doomed attempt to raise their mother from the dead. Their souls had been dragged before the Gate of Truth, where Edward had lost two of his limbs in payment, and Alphonse his whole body, very nearly killing them both. And now, in continued punishment for their sin, they had been marked by Father as "human sacrifices," to be used in some still-unknown ritual to activate the nationwide human transmutation circle. All the more motivation to stop whatever that bastard was planning, he thought, gritting his teeth.

Scar, leading the way, had paused at the treeline on edge of the park. "There are three guards at the laboratory entrance," he observed smoothly. "We can take them out easily, but we'll need to do it quickly to avoid attracting attention."

"Leave it to me," replied Edward with a wicked grin. Pulling his alchemist's silver watch from his pocket, he ran into the street toward the guards before the others could stop him. "Help!" he shouted, waving the watch. "I'm the State Alchemist Edward Elric! Scar's attacking me—and he's _right there!_" He turned and pointed to where the Ishvalan, wearing considerable surprise, stood only half-concealed behind a tree.

"It's that serial killer—get him!" exclaimed one of the soldiers. As all three drew their guns, Edward leapt up behind the three preoccupied men and, with a single martial arts attack, promptly knocked all of them out.

"What? We were in a hurry," Edward replied to his companions' glares as they filed past the unconscious soldiers.

Once inside the building, the group strode through the halls as purposely as if they had legitimate business there, and the sight of Edward's pocketwatch waved aside any questions from curious laboratory staff. (State Alchemists would be a common sight here, after all.) Following Alphonse's instructions, he navigated the way to the basement level.

Now it was just a matter of finding their way to Father's chamber. The corridor before them stretched for some distance in either direction. "We should split up," suggested Hohenheim. "Lan Fan, why don't you and I head to the right? The rest of you can take the left."

* * *

Deep inside Central Command, from her seat in the High Command war room, Major General Olivier Armstrong narrowed her eyes and took stock of her enemies. There were twelve of them seated around the polished mahogany conference table. Gardner, the lieutenant general with the mop of gray hair; Grimaldi, the major general with the thick blond mustache; Clemin, the brigadier general with the dark skin. The others were less influential, hardly worth her notice, but there—there was Major General Radcliffe, with the black hair and pencil mustache. The bastard who had been given command of the Briggs fortress in her place. She would take great satisfaction in killing that one when the time came.

The men gathered in this room were Amestris' most powerful generals, the epitome of its military might. But at this moment, they were panicking like old women.

"T-The Führer's been _assassinated?_"

"Not now, when we're so close—!"

"How can this be happening?!"

_So confused and scared that the room might as well be empty_, Armstrong thought with a contemptuous scowl.

For her own part, she did not believe for a moment that Wrath had died in that train explosion. Not after her experience fighting the homunculus Sloth. When it had burst into the underground level of the Briggs fortress, she and her men had shot it with every gun they'd had, working up to rocket-propelled grenades and eventually tank shells. The creature had merely shrugged. It had finally taken a combination of a Northern blizzard, a barrel of tank fuel, and help from two State-class alchemists to bring it down, and all they'd managed to do was _immobilize_ it. Wrath was likely to be, if anything, even harder to kill based on the capabilities their allies had witnessed. That futility was a large part of the reason Armstrong had gone along with Hawkeye's plan to let the homunculus return to Central unopposed. She saw no sense in risking men and resources on a lost cause, not when they had a proven weapon here in the capitol.

A large part of the reason, but not all. The other part lay locked in a vault within the bowels of Central Command. Gardner had proudly shown it off to her, calling it the "immortal army." At the moment it consisted of thousands of immobile plastic dolls, but at the flick of the switch, they would be alchemically implanted with the souls of those Amestris had crushed in its many wars. "Their arms may come loose, their heads may be blown to bits, but they will fight on and follow orders without fail," Gardner had leered. Armstrong was a hardened soldier who showed no mercy to her enemies, who had committed acts that others would consider heartless, possibly even war crimes. But staring into that vault, she had glimpsed an atrocity beyond description. This was not the Amestris she had sworn to defend.

She gritted her teeth at the thought. Wars should be decided by the strongest armies, the cleverest commanders, the most indomitable soldiers—not perverted by alchemical horrors! Regardless, homunculi and immortal dolls were part of this war, and as much as it galled her to admit it, she did not know how to defeat such creatures through military means alone. They needed alchemists in their arsenal, as many as they could get; even Mustang, that arrogant prick who had no business being allowed near the Führer's chair, could mean the difference between survival and oblivion. It was a deplorable risk either way. But in the end, she had cast her vote with Hawkeye over Grumman's objections.

The old man had evidently been a sore loser. However, there was no sense in dwelling on that now; the deed was done, and whatever happened would happen. Armstrong glanced up at the clock on the wall—1300 hours—just as an alarm klaxon began to sound from the West Gate. "Right on time," she murmured with a faint smirk. Her men were making their move.

An aide rushed into the room. "Sirs!" he saluted frantically, "Central Command is under attack! Northern Division soldiers are massing at the gates. They just appeared in the middle of the city, out of nowhere!"

There was even more confused panicking from the generals, who began to rush out of the room to return to their command posts. Only Radcliffe and Gardner had the presence of mind to stay behind, as Radcliffe cocked his sidearm and pointed it at Armstrong's head. "Call off those Briggs dogs _immediately_, Major General," he growled. "Do you really think you're going to get away with this?"

She threw back her head and laughed, utterly unafraid. "Little boys playing war!" she taunted. "Central has never been attacked by an enemy force since it was founded. You and your men are soft and weak. You're nothing but bait for the bears of Mount Briggs!" Faster than either of them could react, she yanked her sword from the scabbard at her waist and thrust it into Radcliffe's forearm, causing him to drop the gun with a yell. She caught the gun as it dropped, then aimed it squarely at Gardner's forehead. "You'll find I'm not as merciful as some of my allies," she added with a smirk, and pulled the trigger.

He should have fallen dead on the spot, but somehow the stubborn fool managed to stumble a few steps to the door and grab the doorknob first, causing the door to open outward as he thudded to the floor. Armstrong, who had hoped for a quiet escape, found herself in full view of a pair of junior officers, her right hand holding a sword that was still stuck through Radcliffe's arm, her left holding a smoking pistol as she stood over Gardner's corpse. The shocked men immediately ran off, yelling for help. _Tch_, she thought. _This is going to be inconvenient._

* * *

Central Command under attack…when they were this close…it was unthinkable! Major General William Grimaldi rushed down the hallway to the Special Projects laboratory. Reports were coming in: the defending Central troops were unable to stop the attackers' advance. Even more incredibly, some of their men were actually _refusing_ to fight, having somehow been tricked by the enemy's propaganda. They could not afford these losses, not now!

He reached the laboratory door, dialed the entry code and burst in. "I'm deploying the immortal soldiers," he barked at the bald, bespectacled scientist on duty. "If those fools can't stop the enemy, then_ I_ will!" He rushed over to the control cabinet and threw open the doors.

"Please stop, sir!" the scientist exclaimed in horror. "The mass soul-injecting experiments aren't complete—"

But Grimaldi was already throwing levers. "When are we going to use them, if not now?" he demanded with a maniacal grin. He turned to face the massive vault at the rear of the lab, where thousands of mannequins hung by their feet, as the alchemical machinery beside them hummed and crackled to life. Bolts of red light sprang up and danced along the conduits of the machine, then dispersed into thousands of tendrils that shot out and connected with the dolls' foreheads. As Grimaldi looked on, his face suffused with the glow of power, their eyes flew open—and in unison, the entire immortal army let out a deafening, bloodcurdling scream.

The scream went on for some time. When it subsided, the soldiers began dropping nimbly to the floor, one by one. Grimaldi lowered his hands from his ears. They were damned frightening, he had to admit. Good—it would give their side a psychological edge. Now the crowd of freed dolls was approaching him, shuffling slowly, and he could hear them babbling random words.

_"It hurts."_

_"Mama."_

_"I'm hungry."_

_"Father."_

It was just noise; mere echoes from the souls they had used as fuel, no doubt. The frontmost doll was looking at him. "Daddy?" it whimpered.

"Y-yes. Good," Grimaldi responded uncertainly. He hadn't expected this—were they like children? "That's right. I'm your father," he continued more assertively. "And you're a good child. Now listen to your daddy." The dolls continued to shuffle forward. "There are renegade elements attacking this facility," he explained. "Your orders are to defend—" But abruptly the first doll leapt straight for him, mouth open, and he yelled in pain as it bit into his neck. What in god's name was this—?!

The last thing Grimaldi saw was a mass of white plastic as a dozen dolls engulfed him. The last thing he heard was the sound of his own screaming. And the last thing he felt was hundreds of sharp teeth, which chewed and chewed and chewed…

* * *

"This has got to be it," muttered Edward, surveying the large circular room. A defensive barrier had previously been transmuted near one section of wall, and on the floor lay a wrecked suit of armor and a man's decomposing body, matching the aftermath of the battle Alphonse had described from the night Mustang was captured. On the far wall was a huge double doorway inscribed with alchemical imagery: a human transmutation circle. That looked like a promising lead.

The doors wouldn't budge. "Stand back," Scar ordered the others, the tattooed array on his right arm beginning to pulse with alchemical energy. But as the Ishvalan took a step forward, the doors suddenly flew open, and the six men found themselves facing a writhing, shrieking mass of white plastic people.

"What the—" exclaimed Zampano, but the living dolls were already leaping at them, teeth flashing, and the men found themselves fighting for their lives.

There had to be hundreds of the creatures. Edward dodged the dolls' attacks and sent several of them flying with vicious kicks to their faces and chests. The three soldiers quickly transformed into chimera mode and knocked several more back with brute-strength punches. Scar, his arm still pulsing, planted his hand on the nearest doll's face and delivered a flash of decomposition energy. The creature swayed and tipped backwards, its head oozing green fluid, but it quickly righted itself and began shuffling forward again. So did all the others.

"They won't die!" yelled Darius in shock. "What the hell are these things?!" No matter what attacks the humans threw at them, the dolls wouldn't stop attacking. The best they were able to manage was to beat the creatures back briefly.

In the pause between attacks, they could hear…the dolls were speaking. Begging. "It hurts!" "Help me!" "I'm hungry!" "Mama!" The words were interspersed with moans, grunts, and sobs of despair. Suddenly Edward knew exactly what they were. They were just like the souls trapped inside Envy. "They're dolls with souls bonded to them," he informed the others grimly.

"You mean like Alphonse?" gulped Jerso. "Then how do we stop them?"

"Not like Alphonse. They're trapped and suffering." Edward steeled himself, saw the others doing the same as the dolls massed for another round of attacks. The kindest thing they could do was to put these people out of their misery. They just had to figure out how. "Let's go for the legs first, immobilize them, and figure out the rest later. We'll have to work together."

But beside him, Marcoh was breaking down. "No…not this," he moaned, his face white with shock. "This is what they did with them. The Philosopher's Stones I made. The Ishvalans…they used them for this…" He was shaking his head over and over in disbelief as he backed away.

"It appears the doctor will not be of any assistance in this," Scar murmured, an understatement voiced with impressive calm considering that it was his people whose souls Marcoh had harvested. His expression remained inscrutable as he assumed a fighting stance, his right arm glowing.

As the dolls leapt upon them again, the five younger men did their best to beat them back and protect Marcoh. As they battled, a thousand thoughts flew through Edward's head, like _Isn't it a little late to be horrified, Doc? _and _Once they decided to use human lives as fuel, did you really think they wouldn't keep doing even more awful things?_ and _Seriously, you're only freaking out NOW?!_ But none of that was helpful, and they needed Marcoh to snap out of it, so he did the only practical thing he could think of to focus the old man's attention, which was to punch him in the face.

It did the trick. Now the alchemist was looking at Edward, albeit from a sitting position on the floor. "Marcoh!" Edward shouted. "You said these dolls have Philosopher's Stones in them?" The old man nodded. "Then you know how destroy them—" Edward reminded him, deflecting a doll with a punch as it lunged, "—so get to work!"

Marcoh nodded slowly, understanding. He struggled to his feet, then slapped his right palm against the torso of nearest doll. There was a flash of blue and red light, and the doll went limp. He began repeating the process, over and over, as new dolls attacked.

* * *

The conduits leading to Father's chamber had once been guarded by several dozen feral chimeras, Lust recalled. They were all dead now, thanks in part to the same little girl who strolled through the tunnels today; she and Scar had finished the creatures off the first time they had broken in. Once the chimeras were gone, Greed had been sent to patrol the conduits instead, but then he had rebelled and run away. Now there was no one guarding them at all. Had Father's resources really been depleted that far? Lust wondered with a shiver.

But as they headed deeper underground, the homunculus sensed a dark presence. There was something here after all, something new. May also sensed it and stiffened. "Something's coming," she said aloud. "A lot of somethings...and I don't think I want to find out what they are." The girl turned around, walking quickly back toward the last tunnel juncture they had passed, clutching Lust's jar against her stomach. But the pursuing presence was moving closer, and it was moving _fast._

"I don't think you're going to have a choice, little miss," Lust chuckled. "This ought to be interesting." Whatever they were, they were Father's creatures, and the homunculus had nothing to fear. She could hear them now: a chorus of screams, moans, and shouts, growing steadily louder. May was flat-out running for the juncture now.

Too late. She moved fast, but the throng of man-sized white plastic figures that overtook them moved faster. "Marvelous!" laughed Lust from her jar, clapping her stubby hands with delight as the creatures surrounded them, their jaws slavering. "They've deployed the immortal army!"

May shrieked as a doll lunged for her, but she deftly thwarted the attack by turning a cartwheel and trapping its grasping arm between her ankles, sending it flying as she twirled. The movement had caused Lust's jar to launch straight upward, but the girl caught it safely as it fell. ("Hey!" Lust shouted, furious. "Watch where you're—") The girl threw the jar back into the air deliberately as she dodged the next doll's charge, jumping on its back to launch a leaping kick at a third. As the dolls kept up their attacks, the girl continued to deflect them with a series of acrobatic kicks, punches, throws and flips, throwing and catching the jar repeatedly to keep it out of the creatures' grasp, ignoring Lust's screeches of protest.

Until a doll leapt through the air and intercepted the jar, catching it in its mouth.

"Give it back!" May yelled as she kicked another lunging doll out of the way. "I need that—!" But the creature bit down hard, shattering the glass and swallowing Lust whole. "_No!_" May shrieked in frustration.

_"Yes!" _Lust cried in triumph from inside the doll. Swimming through the dark void, she quickly located the Philosopher's Stone affixed to its spine and absorbed it into her own; the amount of energy was small, but it would be enough. With newfound strength, her tiny fertility doll body burst partway out through the skin on the back of creature's neck. The plastic body went rigid, then began to jerk spasmodically as she took control.

Two sinuous arms shot out, grabbed the next nearest doll and pulled it into a gruesome embrace, the plastic forms undulating and pulsing with red lightning as she fused the second doll to the first. Within seconds, the four arms of the newly combined entity reached out and pulled in two more bodies; then eight arms pulled in four more. As May watched frozen in horror, Lust repeated the process over and over until she had absorbed every doll in the corridor. Finally, the writhing mass of plastic and alchemical energy flowed together and reformed into a single human body, taking the familiar shape of a tall, voluptuous woman with long dark hair.

Lust stretched luxuriously as she drew herself to her full height. "_Much_ better," she crooned, unconsciously shaping the surface of her skin into her usual long black dress. "I appreciate that you brought me all the way back home, little miss," she taunted the stricken May. "And you found me such a nice gift, too. These dolls are powered by Philosopher's Stones. The more of them I absorb, the stronger I get."

May, swallowing her fear, thrust her chin out in defiance. "Go ahead and absorb them, old lady," she mocked in return. "Those puppet things are scary. It's much easier to run away from just you!" With that, she turned and streaked away down the corridor.

"Oh no—you don't get away _that _easily, you little brat!" the homunculus growled, and gave chase.

* * *

In the circular room, the dolls continued their relentless assault. The humans battled them back as well as they could, their efforts bolstered by Marcoh's ability to permanently stop any he touched. But the elderly man could reach only a fraction of the dolls, and the hundreds of others kept attacking endlessly. _This is too slow. We'll never make it,_ Edward cursed inwardly as he fended off another lunge. "Marcoh!" he yelled over the clamor. "If you had a big enough transmutation circle, could you take down all these things at once?"

The old man slapped another doll, which glowed and collapsed. "It won't work," he yelled back. "A circle that powerful would have to be the size of this room. And there's nowhere—" he broke off with a grunt of pain as a doll latched its teeth onto his left arm. He slapped it into limpness.

Edward frantically scanned the huge room. As big as this…the old man was right, there was nowhere to draw it on the floor, not with the dolls everywhere. But his eyes drifted up to the ceiling—that could work. "Show me the circle," he shouted, "and leave the rest to me!"

Marcoh had followed the younger alchemist's gaze, and now he nodded with understanding and held out his right palm. Two nested pentagons with a triple inner circle; Edward's practiced eyes scanned the circle and quickly memorized it. Then he clapped his hands, placed them on the floor and drew a column of earth up under his feet, its top flattened into the shape of a giant hand. He kept the column rising until it was tall enough for him to reach his arms up to the ceiling, then clapped again and placed his hands against the flat stone surface, which danced with tendrils of blue energy as he began carefully carving the shape of Marcoh's circle. This would take some time; the details needed to be precise. Once the circle was drawn, he would head back down and get Marcoh, then bring him up here so he could reach—

A blast of pain broke his concentration, halting the transmutation in mid-progress. A doll had climbed up after him and was biting his right leg. "Damn it!" he cried in frustration as he punched it in the head with his automail arm, causing it to plunge back down to the floor. But below him, three more dolls were already scaling the column. Cursing, he clapped his hands and resumed etching the circle, which was only half drawn. "Come _on!_" he yelled impatiently at the ceiling, as if it were somehow at fault.

He was two-thirds finished when the next three dolls reached him, although this time he managed to kick all of them back to the floor before getting bitten, while barely managing to keep from being knocked off his platform. As soon as the dolls hit the floor, they immediately sprang back up and began scaling the column again, and now another five had scrambled ahead of them. _This isn't going to work!_ he thought in despair as he kicked two more dolls to the floor and dodged lunges from the next three. They were coming almost continuously now, giving him no time to finish transmuting the circle. Chancing a look at the floor below him, he spotted the three chimeras, torn and bloodied, barely managing to hold their own against the relentless attacks. Scar, doing his best to help the others, was faring only a bit better. And Marcoh—where the hell was Marcoh?!

No—there was a thick clump of dolls near the base of the column. A feeble red and blue glow briefly flashed beneath it, then went dark. Edward's heart pounded; the old man, their only hope, had been overwhelmed—

But suddenly the clump erupted in a bright flash of red and blue lightning, and a dozen dolls flew backwards, coming to rest in a limp circle around Marcoh's crouched and bloodied form. With a look of cold determination in his eyes, the old man stood up and clapped his hands together so hard that the sound echoed above the melee.

The entire room was abruptly engulfed in a brilliant burst of blue light. It was followed by an equally brilliant flash of red, and the sound of bloodcurdling screams, as every single one of the dolls fell dead to the floor.

In the eerie stillness that followed, Marcoh swayed on his feet for several moments, until his legs gave way entirely and he toppled to the floor himself. Edward clapped and lowered his column back down to floor level, while the others slowly moved to surround the elderly man, staring at him in shock.

"What the hell was _THAT_, Doc?" Darius exclaimed.

"And why didn't you do it sooner?!" Jerso chimed in. The three chimeras were grinning with relief, while Scar looked on impassively. Marcoh said nothing, staring somberly at his hands.

"You've seen the Gate," Edward said to him gravely, ignoring the others.

The alchemist nodded slowly, not meeting Edward's eyes. "Creating Philosopher's Stones is a form of human transmutation," he said softly. "Some of the souls that are sacrificed for the stone are used as payment." He took a deep, ragged breath. "I saw the Gate each time. So many, many times. Somehow, until this moment, I had managed to forget," he mumbled, burying his face in his hands.

Edward swallowed. He remembered how traumatic seeing the Gate had been for him. And even more so for Alphonse, who had repressed the memory for years, until a brush with death had awakened it—just like Marcoh. As much revulsion as he felt for the things the elderly alchemist had done, Edward could not help but feel pity for him at that moment.

After a few moments, the silence was broken by Scar, his expression as unreadable as always. "We do not have time for this," he intoned. If he would not indulge himself in grief or anger for his lost countrymen, neither would he spare any sympathy for the man responsible for their deaths. "We need to keep moving," he reminded the others sternly. "There is still much to do."


	28. Friendly Fire

Chapter 28: Friendly Fire

"It's all clear. No one in sight," Havoc beckoned. With the sounds of gunfire and artillery booming in their ears, Hawkeye and the rest of their platoon followed him through the doorway of a maintenance tunnel near Central Command's West Gate, concealed from outside view by hanging vines. An advantage of being the Führer President's aide and bodyguard was that Hawkeye had been given the locations of all the emergency exits in the complex, including a few known only to the High Command and their staff, along with a pass key that would open those doors. Either it had never occurred to Wrath that she might misuse such resources, or he was too dismissive of her to care; in either case, the exits worked equally well as entrances.

Once in the tunnel, the platoon paused as Hawkeye unclipped the two-way radio from her belt and spoke evenly into the comm. "Fuery, Hawkeye here. We're in. What's our status?"

_"Affirmative, Hawkeye," _Fuery's voice replied. With the fighting well underway, there was no longer any need to speak in code._ "Briggs' Blue Squadron has taken the East Gate. Yellow Squadron is headed for the armory. Minimal resistance from Central troops so far, but we're getting strange reports from inside the complex. Some kind of living dolls that are attacking troops on both sides. LOTS of them, and they're lethal. Proceed with caution."_

"Understood. What about the alchemists? Where are they now?"

There was a pause. _"At last contact, they were outside the complex, a few blocks from Laboratory 3. We haven't heard from them in the last hour. I'm trying to raise them." _Hawkeye swore under her breath, feeling a prickle of apprehension creep up her spine and the back of her neck. But she quashed it just as quickly. Dwelling on her fears was a luxury she couldn't afford, not now.

Before she could reply to Fuery, there was a burst of static from the radio. In a moment he continued more urgently: _"Lieutenant, Yellow Squadron is requesting backup at the armory. They're pinned down and taking casualties."_

"Got it. We're moving to assist." She motioned for the platoon to resume heading down the corridor, quickly. "And Fuery, find those alchemists!" she ordered before breaking transmission. Her eyes met Havoc's in an exchange of somber glances as they hurriedly moved out. However much they might want to focus on finding Dr. Marcoh, right now the armory was the most pressing concern. If they didn't get control of the weapon supplies before Wrath returned and the Central troops rallied to his side, the resistance would have little hope of surviving this day, much less saving the Colonel.

* * *

Over the next twenty minutes, the Building Maintenance channel was abuzz with reports.

_"This is the West Gate. Briggs' White Squadron has taken control!"_

_"North Gate, Black Squadron now has control."_

_"Blue Squadron still controls the East Gate. Holding."_

_"Yellow Squadron here. We've taken the armory, but could really use those reinforcements!" _Gunfire sounded in the background.

Captain Buccaneer, eponymous leader of Briggs' most elite fighting unit, took the radio from his communications officer, his normally stoic features twisted into a satisfied grin. "Buccaneer Squadron has taken control of the Main Gate," he barked into the comm. "Infantry has control of the upper level and staircase, and the tank is in position on the ground." He paused, savoring the victory. "Over 90% of Central Command is now under our control. There's been little resistance, and our casualties are few." Scattered behind him on the Main Gate's entrance plaza, his men began to whoop in celebration.

Viewing the scene from Buccaneer's side, Falman wore a more reserved smile, unwilling either to relax or celebrate just yet. Wrath was still missing, his death in the train explosion widely assumed but not yet confirmed. If he was truly dead, Falman and the rest of his former team would have to mourn the loss of their beloved commanding officer. But if he had somehow survived, then their own peril was only beginning.

Drifting away from the swaggering Northern troops, he walked over to a window overlooking the street, anxiously surveying their surroundings. The Main Gate was designed with both grandeur and defense in mind, and was located on an elevated, walled entrance plaza with a long sloping staircase leading down to the street. That gave their forces the tactical high ground, while down at street level, three squadrons' worth of Central soldiers were nervously holding position with guns pointed at the ground, courtesy of Hawkeye's propaganda. If that fragile détente should collapse, however, the badly outnumbered resistance troops would find themselves in a vicious firefight.

For the moment, the truce was holding and the Briggs troops were celebrating, as their collective cheers morphed into the refrain of a bawdy Northern victory song. Even Buccaneer joined in. But the celebratory chants were interrupted when a new voice abruptly boomed over the radio.

_"Hello, everyone."_

Every soldier fell silent as they turned to stare at the radio. Falman's jaw dropped at the familiar man's voice. "It's Wrath," he gasped. "He's still alive!" He was overcome with a strange mix of relief and bone-chilling dread.

"Where is he? Is he attacking?" growled Buccaneer, gesturing for his troops to take up a defensive formation on the perimeter. From his window, Falman anxiously scanned the streets below.

_"I see that things have gotten quite out of hand while I've been away_," the voice continued to boom through the radio speaker, a smirk audible even through the static. _"As of now, I am personally taking command and putting down this coup. All available Central Command soldiers are to assist me."_

"He's broadcasting on all frequencies," murmured the communications officer. In the streets below, the Central troops were beginning to cheer.

"There!" Buccaneer growled from over Falman's shoulder, pointing through the window to a section of street a few blocks away, where three walking figures were just coming into view through the glare of the afternoon sun. Falman's heart sank as he recognized Mustang's familiar silhouette, flanked by two of his officers. The grinning Central soldiers were standing to attention now, saluting reverently as the Führer President approached and strode past them, his lips twisted in an imperious smirk. He had shed his dress uniform jacket, and his remaining clothing was smudged with dirt and a few small rips, but despite the train explosion he appeared entirely unhurt.

Falman stared transfixed with dread as the figure drew nearer. It was his first time seeing the Colonel since Wrath had possessed him. The creature coming for them was powerful, deadly, and thoroughly evil. But he was also Roy Mustang, the man they loved and admired. The sense of _wrongness_ was nearly overwhelming.

When Wrath reached the street directly below the Main Gate, he halted and aimed a challenging glare at the Northern troops guarding the staircase—including the tank parked conspicuously at its front. In a dramatic gesture, he rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, and unsheathed his sword with a flourish. Then he gestured for the Central troops to stay where they were, and resumed walking forward.

"He's coming by himself?" Falman exclaimed incredulously. "In a frontal assault?!"

He hadn't meant for Wrath to hear him, but the homunculus swung his gaze up to the window. "Well hello, Falman," he called with an ominous grin. "It's nice to see a familiar face. Tell me, is there some reason I shouldn't walk through the front door of my own castle?" Falman could only stare in horror at the monster, so familiar and so completely alien all at once.

Still smirking up at his former subordinate, Wrath held his sword out to one side, the sun briefly glinting off the blade as he prepared to charge.

"Infantrymen, keep back!" bellowed Buccaneer. And the Führer President disappeared in a blur.

* * *

They were nearly at the armory when the call came in. _"Lieutenant Hawkeye!"_ Fuery's voice squawked over the comm. _"He's here. Wrath is at the Main Gate!"_

She felt the blood drain from her face. Not yet, not this soon—they weren't ready! There was still no word from Marcoh. "Are they holding, Fuery? How long do we have?"

_"Not long. He...he's annihilating the infantry. The tank is already destroyed."_

Hawkeye cursed. They were out of time. "Listen to me. I'm heading there now. I'll do whatever I can to slow him down. _Find Marcoh_, Fuery! When you do, send him there immediately!"

_"Understood. And Lieutenant, please be careful!"_

She slammed the comm back into its cradle and turned to Havoc. "We split up here. Take the platoon and continue to the armory—"

"No way!" Havoc exclaimed. "You're not going up against Wrath on your own—"

_"Lieutenant, that's an order!" _Hawkeye barked, silencing him. But in the next moment her voice softened. "We need those weapons, Havoc. They're far more important than either the Colonel or me. And Wrath won't kill me, you know that. I have the best chance of anyone of stalling him."

Havoc swallowed, his expression pained; but he nodded reluctantly. He turned back to the troops. "You heard the Lieutenant, men. Let's go get that armory," he ordered soberly. He gestured at Hawkeye's radio. "You need any help, you call us right away. OK?" He gave her a somber salute, followed by the other soldiers.

"OK," Hawkeye smiled as she returned their salute. "Now _go_." There was no more time to waste; without a backward glance at the men, she turned and sprinted, as fast as she could, down the corridor toward the Main Gate.

* * *

"Let me through!" Hawkeye shouted at the soldiers guarding the inside of Main Gate. She was out of breath from running.

"I can't do that, ma'am. We were told to not to open the gate for anyone," the sergeant in charge responded anxiously. "Those crazy dolls are on the loose, and if they get out into the city—"

"That's an ORDER," she bellowed. "Open it just enough for me to get through. Close it after me, and resume holding. But be prepared to let me back in. NOW!"

Before the sergeant could protest further, the massive gears of gate mechanism began to turn on their own, activated from the outside. The door opened just wide enough for a person to slip through. "_Hurry,_" Falman beckoned from the other side, his face pale with fear. Hawkeye slid through the gate and emerged into bright light, the afternoon sun shining painfully off the white stone pavement of the entrance plaza. Behind her, the gears whirred again and the gate slammed shut.

Wrath was there. Across the plaza, at the top of the massive staircase leading up from the street, he stood smirking, brandishing a sword that was dripping in blood. Behind him lay a trail of Briggs soldiers' bodies and a ruined tank. He did not appear to have a scratch on him.

"Stay here," Hawkeye murmured to Falman. "Hold the gate for as long as you can. He won't kill you." Falman nodded soberly as she stepped forward in the sunlight. At the plaza's center, a huge solider with a mohawk and a strange automail arm stood facing the homunculus in a challenging stance. Around the perimeter, another dozen soldiers had their guns trained on him, awaiting the order to attack.

Wrath saw her. "Hello, Riza," he called with a grin across the plaza, ignoring the other soldiers. "I'm home. Sorry I'm late. Did you know your grandfather was going to blow up my train?"

"No." She took a deep breath. "Did you kill him?"

"Not yet. I had a few other things to do first." She didn't bother to hide her sigh of relief. Wrath might be many evil things, but he wasn't a liar.

"I take it you're Lieutenant Hawkeye?" the man in the mohawk—that would be Captain Buccaneer—turned and barked at her, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

"Yes," she answered. "Then you know why I'm here?"

He spat at the ground dismissively. "General Armstrong briefed us. She said the Führer is a potential asset, and that you might be able to turn him." His eyes swept from her to Wrath, a sneer displaying his opinion of her chances. "I'll give you five minutes." He stepped back and rejoined his men at the perimeter.

"Understood." It wasn't enough time, not nearly enough, but if she couldn't stop Wrath by then, the Briggs soldiers were probably dead anyway. Without access to Marcoh, she only had one option now. She would need to draw him in close.

Wrath still stood on the far side of the plaza, watching the scene with an amused smirk. "Anytime you're ready, my dear."

She turned her attention back to him, but addressed the man inside. "Colonel," she called. "I need to tell you something very important. _We have a way to save you. _So it's essential that you stay alive. You'll understand why I'm telling you this in a minute. I repeat: _Don't die_."

He was laughing. "Sorry, but your precious Colonel isn't coming out to see you! He wasted most of his strength trying to keep me from getting out of that train alive. I'll have him fully absorbed before much longer, and he's far too weak to stop me from getting to you right now." With a twisted grin, he held his sword out to his side, preparing to charge.

There was no time left for fear. "We'll see about that," Hawkeye replied briskly. She slid two pistols from the holsters behind her back, cocked them and pointed them at him, eyes narrowed. "Come and get me, Wrath," she taunted, "_if _you can!"

His grin widened with delight. Then he disappeared in a blur of motion that came streaking toward her, as she fired both barrels with everything she had. She felt an impact as he slammed into her, a sharp tearing pain in her left shoulder, and another impact as she hit the ground beneath her.

In the next instant she was lying on her back with the breath knocked out of her, guns gone, the sword painfully skewering her shoulder, and Wrath on top of her, pinning her to the ground. No—it was the Colonel!

Unable to catch her breath to speak, she reached into her pocket, yanked out an ignition glove and threw it up to him. With wordless understanding, shaking as he struggled against Wrath's resistance, he slid the glove on his left hand and snapped his fingers—

—and screamed in pain as his right eye exploded in a fireball.

"Colonel!" she screamed in return. He was writhing in pain on the ground now, groaning and cursing, a hand covering what was left of the eye. She managed to sit up, absently yanking the sword from her shoulder and hurling it away, ignoring her own pain, helpless to do anything for him but watch.

After a few minutes, he calmed down. Continuing to curse under his breath, he removed his hand, then slowly sat up and turned to face her. He was panting with pain, the right eye socket sealed shut with freshly-burned skin.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

He managed an ironic half-smile. "I don't have words to describe how much that hurt," he gasped. "No polite ones, anyway. Nicely played, Lieutenant."

"Colonel…is it you?"

"Yes," he said. The smile and the gleam in his remaining eye were the Colonel's. She sighed with relief. "And no." He raised himself to his knees, and suddenly she saw the rage behind the smile. "That little stunt cost my soul the last of its strength. It's been fully absorbed."

Hawkeye stared at him in shock. She could not have heard his words correctly. "What…" she heard her own voice say, weakly. "…You can't be…"

His lips twisted into a grin. "It's done. We're one and the same now, for good. _Finally._" He threw back his head and laughed.

The world was sinking beneath her. "No," she protested, stunned. "No—I don't believe you. You're lying!"

He climbed to his feet, his grin suddenly very, very cold. "I've never lied to you. Whatever you were planning to do to save me, give it up. Even if you could destroy my Philosopher's Stone—and I sincerely doubt that you could—you can't do it without destroying all of me. And I don't particularly want to die." He walked over and retrieved his sword from where she had thrown it, then peeled the ignition glove from his hand and contemptuously let it fall. With a quick blur, the glove hit the ground as a pile of white shreds.

She should be standing up, running away, but something had broken inside of her. Instead she could only sit paralyzed on the ground, her shoulder throbbing and running with blood, her legs refusing to move. What was the point of fighting back now? She had lost and Wrath had won, and the man she loved was gone forever. Tears filled her eyes as despair and remorse overwhelmed her. She had failed him.

He began walking back toward her, letting the tip of his sword scrape along the pavement, still wearing that awful smile. "Now, the question is, what shall I do with you, Lieutenant?" She only stared, numb with dread, as the homunculus loomed closer.

It was then that her blurred vision registered the trickle of blood oozing from Wrath's left side. He was wounded. Not much, not even enough to slow him down. But it meant that she had managed to hit him with one of her bullets when he charged...Of course she had hit him, she realized suddenly. He had run straight at her, a tactically stupid move from a creature who thought of himself as invincible. But he wasn't. He wasn't invincible at all.

Slowly, she climbed to her feet and faced him, unholstering and cocking her last pair of guns.

Then she heard the sound of a dozen rifle bolts being pulled back.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," barked Captain Buccaneer. "Your five minutes are up. I strongly suggest that you get out of the line of fire." He and his men had moved into position behind Wrath and had their rifles pointed at his head.

Wrath sighed theatrically. "Your timing is aggravating, Captain," he called over his shoulder. He smiled at Hawkeye. "You go on ahead, Lieutenant. I'll catch up." Then he turned around to face the Briggs soldiers.

There was no point in asking the soldiers not to kill Wrath. Even with his visual abilities crippled, they would be extremely lucky to escape with their lives. "Good luck, Captain," Hawkeye called somberly. She turned and sprinted back toward the gate as the sound of gunfire erupted behind her. It was time to find Dr. Marcoh and end this. One way or another.


	29. Duel

Chapter 29: Duel

The soldiers from Fort Briggs were renowned throughout Amestris for their strength, their discipline, and their indomitable courage. They were not as well-known for their wisdom. Falman would never know why Captain Buccaneer, having just watched Wrath single-handedly kill a dozen of those indomitable soldiers and _destroy a tank_, thought it would be a good idea to charge at the homunculus in single combat armed with nothing more than his chainsaw automail arm. The "fight" was over in an instant, and now Buccaneer lay motionless in a pool of blood and ruined automail parts as Wrath walked away with a smirk.

Falman, still guarding the Main Gate, watched in terror as the homunculus strode toward him. He had seen and heard everything: Hawkeye's desperate attempt to physically throw herself in Wrath's way; the Colonel's final, doomed struggle against the creature possessing him; and the moment that battle was lost, the man now trapped forever inside the homunculus. Falman's eyes had met Hawkeye's for the briefest moment as she ran past him through the gate, her despair and horror mirroring his a hundredfold. But there was no time for mourning, only the grim completion of their duties. Now she raced to find Dr. Marcoh, to use his power to destroy the homunculus, even though killing what was left of the Colonel would destroy her too. And Falman would remain at his post, making his own doomed last stand against Wrath, even though he had no hope of surviving.

He raised his sidearm and pointed it at the approaching creature. His entire body was shaking. "I can't let you through, sir," he said, his voice cracking with fear.

A smirk still played at Wrath's lips. "There's no need to put on a show of bravery, Falman. Open the door. That's an order." Falman's only answer was to tighten his grip on the gun. The homunculus sighed. "I'll kill you if I have to—there's nothing to stop me now—but I'd rather not."

Falman stared the homunculus down over the barrel of his gun, refusing to yield. He knew he was going to die here. He didn't want to die, but even more, he didn't want to be killed by the obscene monster in front of him, grinning smugly while it wore the Colonel's shattered soul like a trophy. The idea that whatever remained of Mustang, the commanding officer who would have given his own life to protect his subordinates, was about to cut one of them down with hardly a thought was more than Falman could bear. Tears filled his eyes.

Wrath's smile faded as he raised his sword. "This is your last chance, Falman," he growled. "Stand aside. Don't try to be a hero." He was growing genuinely agitated, the sword trembling slightly in his hand. "Damn you, man! _Don't make me kill you!_"

"I'm sorry, Colonel Mustang," Falman answered quietly, tears running down his cheeks. He doubted he would even be able to leave a scratch on the creature, but he might as well go down fighting. His finger moved to the trigger.

"Hey, you!" came a bellow from the middle of the plaza. "Don't go trying to act brave with such a pathetic look on your face!"

Both Falman and the homunculus stared, incredulous, as the gravely wounded but unexpectedly living figure of Captain Buccaneer half walked, half stumbled toward them. The automail of his right arm was completely destroyed, and among other injuries, his left forearm was bleeding profusely from a deep sword slash; he had wrapped the broken automail chain around it like a tourniquet. "I'll show you how a real man fights," he sneered. But his breaths were labored with pain, and he sagged down on one knee; he could barely stand, much less fight.

"So pointless," Wrath scoffed in response, waving his arm to take in both soldiers. "Is this what you people call bravery? Throwing your lives away for no reason?"

"That's right," came a new voice from somewhere above them. "Humans are as stupid as they come." They all turned to look up. High above the Main Gate, Falman made out a figure lounging on a parapet, clad in black Xingese clothing. Greed—the homunculus with the grudge against his own kind. "But for some reason, I just can't bring myself to leave 'em hanging," he finished with a dry laugh.

The second homunculus leapt gracefully off the parapet, plunging three stories' distance and landing with such force the plaza stones cracked in a circle around him, as he alighted neatly on his hands and one knee. "Besides," he added, his grin twisting into a scowl as he stood up, "both me and the kid have a score to settle with you, Wrath."

From his post in front of the Main Gate, Falman took in the scene: Wrath's smirk returning as the two homunculi began to circle one another, each taking the other's measure. Buccaneer and the other Briggs troops watching from the sidelines, tensed and waiting for an opportunity to strike. And off in the distance, a leaping Xingese figure approaching over the rooftops—no, make that two figures, with a second one approaching even more distantly behind. Falman smiled mournfully. The Colonel might be gone forever, but at least his killer would have a hell of a fight on his hands. And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to stop him.

* * *

Inside Central Command, Hawkeye ran blindly, with no immediate direction except away from the Central soldiers who were patrolling the corridors. Despair had shattered her, left her numb and empty. The Colonel was gone, and all her hope had died with him. Wrath's return had also caused their truce with the Central troops to collapse. There was probably no chance for any of them now; but she forced herself onward, fueled by grim resolve, the only thing she had left. After dodging two patrols, she took shelter in an empty office and radioed Fuery.

"_Fuery here." _His voice was cutting in and out, punctuated by bursts of static, indicating that he was sifting through a barrage of transmissions. "_Lieutenant, what's your status? Is Wrath—?" _

She could not bring herself to tell him and the rest of their team about the Colonel yet, not in the middle of the battle, when she needed them to focus. "He's still engaging the Briggs forces at the Main Gate, but the battle won't last long," she reported urgently, working to keep her voice from breaking. "I need Marcoh _now,_ Fuery! Where the hell are the alchemists?!"

"_We got a partial transmission from them, probably from underground. We're working to boost the signal—Teague, what have we got?" _There was another burst of static. _"Stand by, Lieutenant."_

Hawkeye waited anxiously, breathing deeply to calm herself, the profusely bleeding wound in her left shoulder knifing her painfully. She needed to take care of that, she realized numbly. Forcing herself to focus, she carefully removed her jacket and examined the injury. Just a flesh wound, purposely dealt by Wrath to cause her pain and blood loss but no permanent damage. She tore a sleeve from her jacket and used it to make a field dressing, tying up her shoulder through vision still blurred with tears.

Through the haze of pain and grief, it suddenly struck her that it was oddly quiet. There was some gunfire still coming from the Main Gate, but only sporadic battle sounds in the distance. If the Central forces were rallying, why wasn't she hearing it? "Fuery," she spoke into the comm. "What's our status? Are our forces holding?"

There was a crackle. _"Yes, we're still holding. But word of Wrath's battle with the Briggs forces is starting to get around, and some of the Central forces are starting to fight back."_

"Only some?" Hawkeye echoed, stunned. "After Wrath's broadcast?"

"_He didn't say which coup he was putting down. A lot of the Central soldiers apparently still think we're on their side."_ In spite of everything, Hawkeye broke into a smile. _Breda, you're a genius_, she thought. Her own battle was lost, but there might still be hope for the resistance.

Then: _"Found them, Lieutenant! The alchemists are in the first level basement of Laboratory 3, about half a klick southwest of Central Command. It's a large circular room."_

"Got it," she replied with something akin to relief. She had been in that room before, the night the Colonel had first been taken. "OK, I need you to track Wrath while I go get Marcoh. We've only got one chance at this, so I need every bit of intel you can get on his movements."

"_Yes, ma'am!"_

Swallowing with resolve, Hawkeye slammed down the comm and ran for the basement staircase, headed southwest.

* * *

Wrath hauled himself up out of the drainage sluice that flowed beneath Central Command, cursing. So much for his triumphant return to his castle. Now he found himself dripping wet and skulking in its basement.

_What's wrong with me?_ he questioned himself. Even with his right eye destroyed, the battle with the Briggs forces at the Main Gate shouldn't have lasted long, and its outcome shouldn't have been in doubt. But the resistance soldiers had unexpectedly been joined by Greed and a highly skilled Xingese fighter, the old man Fu, and together they had put up more of a fight than he had anticipated. It wasn't just their skills that had gotten the better of him. He should have slaughtered every enemy without a thought, but he had inexplicably held back. He had finally killed the officer in charge, Captain Buccaneer. He had slaughtered most of the other Briggs soldiers. He hadn't gotten around to killing Falman because the man wasn't a threat; and he hadn't been physically able to kill Greed, although he had tried. But he definitely should have killed Fu.

It was the Xingese bodyguard girl who had distracted him. Arriving late to the battle, alighting on a high ledge the moment Wrath had struck at the old man, she had cried out "_Grandfather!_" in a terrified voice. In that instant, Wrath had found himself flashing back ten years ago to that day in Berthold Hawkeye's decrepit house, when his former alchemy master had collapsed and died in his arms, and Riza had walked in and cried out for her father in that same voice. Back in the present, he had suddenly felt such pity for the Xingese girl that he had pulled back his attack and merely disabled the old man. That split-second distraction had allowed Buccaneer to attack from his blind spot, setting up the final attack that had knocked him into the moat below the Main Gate. A stupid moment of weakness.

Well, whatever had happened, the battle was over now, and he had made it inside Central Command. Next he needed to find Riza, and…what? Punish her? He did want that. Although he had shown her only patience and kindness, she had spurned him, betrayed him, and cost him his irreplaceable right eye. He was already imagining some exquisite and well-deserved punishments for her, and now there would be no rebellious human soul to stop him from carrying them out. But even as he entertained those thoughts, he felt his stomach curdle, found the idea of hurting her to be shameful and repulsive. What was wrong with him? Was his Mustang half really making him so weak?

No matter, Wrath resolved. He would decide what to do with Riza later. For the moment, he merely needed to find her and put her somewhere where she would be protected from Father's human transmutation reaction. After all, he would hardly be able to punish her _or_ choose to be merciful if she were dead. And the eclipse wasn't far off now.

Finding her was another matter. How would the rebel forces be communicating? He located an abandoned security station, turned on its two-way radio, and spun the dial through various official channels: Command, Police, Fire, Medical. All were being used by forces loyal to him, as expected. The rebels would probably look for an empty channel, somewhere no one would think to check in the heat of battle. He cycled through several dead channels—Sanitation, Motor Pool, Commissary—until he reached Building Maintenance, which was alive with chatter. Got them!

The broadcast was crackling with overlapping reports. _"2__nd__ Platoon here. The Führer's office was completely overrun by dolls, no enemy survivors—"_

"_Something's going on in the hallway outside Conference Room 12. There's a huge monster fighting with Major General Armstrong and Major Armstrong_—" Loud crashing noises, shouts and scattered gunfire could be heard in the background.

"_Black Squadron here! North Gate's under attack by dolls, heavy losses. Need backup now!" _Heavy gunfire and artillery blasts accompanied the plea.

Wrath grinned at the familiar sounds of battle. And he had thought that Amestris had no more real wars left in her! If only it didn't have to end so soon…

"_Affirmative, Black Squadron. Anti-Establishment volunteers moving to assist_." It was Fuery's voice. Another of his faithful subordinates. _"All other locations, I need eyes on the Führer. Last sighted in the moat outside the Main Gate. Repeat, any sightings of the Führer."_

"_East Gate here, no eyes on the Führer. A couple of Central platoons are giving us trouble, but we're managing_." More gunfire.

"_Infirmary here. No sign of the Führer. Holding."_

"_Armory, no Führer here."_ Now it was Havoc's voice. _"Holding. Any news on Hawkeye?"_ That got Wrath's attention.

"_She's moving to intercept Dr. Marcoh. Stand by."_ Aha—Marcoh must be the key to her plan to "save" him. But how? And where was she?

"_White Squadron here. We sighted the Führer in the moat near the West Gate a few minutes ago. Looked like he swam though an intake under the building."_ Heavy gunfire._ "No eyes on him at present. We've got our hands full with Central forces AND dolls."_

"_5__th__ Platoon here. We're on the second floor, southwest quadrant. No eyes on the Führer, but we're reconning dolls overrunning the staircase below us, headed for the basement. Any forces in that vicinity, prepare for attack."_

Fuery swore. _"Any free forces, move to the southwest staircase, basement level, to assist Lieutenant Hawkeye. She's intercepting an asset that we cannot lose. This is maximum priority!"_

Wrath grinned and snapped off the radio. She wasn't far away.

* * *

Lust struck out repeatedly with her extended fingernails, but May was small and agile, and dodged every attack. Annoying little brat! She was getting angry now.

"Get back here, you little bitch!" the homunculus shouted. They dodged and weaved through the underground corridors, the little girl remaining too far ahead for Lust's fingernails to be of any use as a weapon. May might be young, but she would have to slow down eventually, Lust thought irritably.

But when she turned the next corner, she stopped cold. They had reached a juncture leading to two more tunnels, and the girl had fled through the one on the left. But to the right, Lust sensed a much more desirable quarry. Killing the brat could wait, she decided. She rushed down the right-hand tunnel and burst into the chamber at its end. Her target, startled, turned to face her.

"_Wrath!"_ Her voice cracked like ice.

"Lust!" he exclaimed, smiling with genuine surprise. "You're alive! Where have you—" His smile disappeared as he had to leap out of the way of her fingernails, which nearly removed his head.

"_How dare you,"_ she bellowed, shaking with fury. "You dare to stand there and make pleasantries, when you _killed Envy!_" Through her rage, she noted that he was injured. His right eye had been completely destroyed, and he had several other wounds. She struck again with both hands, her right hand poised to skewer his heart while her left aimed to sever his legs at the knees. He dodged the first thrust and parried the second with his sword.

"Oh," he replied calmly. "So you found out about that."

"How could you do it? Why did you kill him?" she shouted. She paused her attacks and circled him, assessing his condition. He was moving more slowly than usual, favoring his left side, where he appeared to have been grazed by a bullet to the ribs.

Wrath merely smiled. "It was revenge. He killed my best friend. Nothing you could possibly understand."

"Oh, I understand revenge better than you think, Wrath," Lust growled. "Envy was _family_." She lunged at him again, feinting for his head with her left hand, then swiping upwards with her right in an attempt to break his sword as he parried; but he saw through the ruse and pulled back in time. Something else about him was different: his voice and mannerisms, the way he moved. "You've finally absorbed your human, haven't you?" she demanded.

"I have," he answered with a smirk as he ducked her next thrust, with both her hands aimed at his neck. "There's no longer anything holding me back from taking what I want. So I'm afraid I won't have as much need for our little liaisons in the future."

"Good. Then I have another reason to kill you," Lust spat. She struck for his groin this time, and again he parried. But she had merely been playing with him up to now, testing him. Tracking his movements, noting where he was slowest, where he was weakest. His injuries were taking a toll. He still moved faster than her, but she could still regenerate. The fight would be an even one.

His eyebrows rose. "Well, they say hell hath no fury—" he began, and she attacked.

They fought in earnest now, circling in close, both of them striking quickly and brutally, again and again. He still moved very fast, and his sword penetrated her flesh repeatedly, the continuous flash of red light from her regeneration illuminating their battle. Her rage allowed her to ignore the momentary bursts of intense pain. She scored fewer and more superficial hits, but the damage she inflicted was lasting.

From somewhere in the surrounding corridors came the sounds of gunfire, the shouts and screams of soldiers, the pathetic cries of living dolls as they attacked. But no forces breached their chamber, and the homunculi ignored everything outside it, focused solely on their mutual goal of annihilating one another.

As the fight wore on and she dealt him more blows, she saw that he was beginning to slow further. The next time her fingernails struck, she pierced deeply, skewering his left thigh, and he leapt backwards away from her, coming to rest on the other side of the room.

"You're not half bad at this," he remarked. He was still wearing that infuriating smile, but beneath it he was panting in pain, and leaning on his sword for support as if it were a crutch. She had hurt him. Good.

"But you're relying too heavily on your regeneration," he continued. "Your Philosopher's Stone is getting low." He was right, Lust realized; she had not absorbed enough of the dolls to reach anything close to her full strength, and in her fury she had not even noticed how little energy she had left. "Another strike from me, and you'll be dead."

"You're not doing so well yourself," she countered with a smirk of her own. "You're slowing down. And all I need is one vital hit."

"You won't get it. Not before I get to you, and my next blow will be fatal. At best, you'll sacrifice yourself to get your revenge."

"Shall we kill each other, then? A lovers' suicide pact?" Her mouth twisted into a grin. "I don't think so, Wrath. You're bluffing. You'll never reach anything close to your full speed with that leg injury."

"You're not skilled enough to defeat me." His smile was mocking, defiant. "And you flatter yourself. We were hardly lovers. You were just convenient."

Lust laughed, confident now. "You know what I'm going to do, after I kill you? I'm going to go find your cold little wife. I know you've stashed her around here somewhere. And I'm going to give her a _thorough_ working over," she purred. "Right before I tear her to shreds."

Her words should have enraged Wrath, provoked him into attacking her. But now he was only smirking broadly, his single eye glittering with amusement. "No, Lust," he laughed, "you won't."

It was only then that she realized he was looking past her.

Lust turned just in time to see Riza Hawkeye framed in the doorway, a gun in each hand, both pointed at her. As if in slow motion, she saw the muzzles flash and the guns recoil as the woman opened fire, felt the impact of the bullets ripping painfully through her chest. And it was too late: her Philosopher's Stone was out of power, her body no longer healing, and she felt herself crumbling, disintegrating. All of her, even her tiny host body.

_No—not this way! Not by that frigid bitch!_

She only had time for a wordless scream as she turned to dust.


	30. Promise

Chapter 30: Promise

Smoke drifting from the barrels of the guns clenched in her hands, Hawkeye watched as Lust crumpled into a pile of ash and blew away. She had one bullet left. Tossing aside the empty gun, she kept the other pointed at Wrath.

He was regarding her with an intense, slightly bemused expression. "Why did you save me, Lieutenant? Lust had the upper hand. You could have let her finish me before you killed her."

Hawkeye swallowed and tightened her grip on the gun. She herself didn't know. Wrath was a lethal enemy who had destroyed the man she loved, who remained a threat to her and all of Amestris. But he still wore the Colonel's body and whatever remained of his soul. Some instinct too deep for her to override had kicked in to protect him, and her hands had fired the guns before she had even realized what she was doing.

"Looks like I'm still watching the Colonel's back," she answered soberly, seeing no point in lying.

A faint smirk returned to Wrath's lips. "I told you, there is no 'Colonel' anymore. We're one and the same now." Ignoring the weapon pointed at him, he began to limp toward her slowly, leaning heavily on his sword for support. He stopped approaching at about six feet away when she pointedly cocked the gun. She realized with a jolt that there was no need longer any need for her to lead him to Dr. Marcoh. He was badly injured, his left leg crippled, and if she fired at him now, she could easily make it a kill shot.

Still she hesitated. "Why was Lust trying to kill you?" she demanded.

"Because I killed Envy in retaliation for murdering Hughes." The homunculus chuckled. "I guess you were right about which part of me would be in control in the end."

She paused for a moment as his words sank in. "Whose side are you on, Wrath?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. "My own. But it seems my interests no longer coincide with the rest of my kind." His gaze wandered away from her, as if he were lost in contemplation. Then his smile slowly grew; and after a few moments he began laughing outright. "You know what, Lieutenant? I am no longer even vaguely interested in Father's vision of the future. I prefer this world the way it is." His single eye focused on her intently. "I say we join forces, go stop him, and get back to our lives. What do you say?"

Hawkeye held the gun steady. She had no reason at all to trust him. But his voice and mannerisms were those of the Colonel…and she sensed no violent intent from him. What if his loyalties had indeed changed? What if his human half really was in control? Her heart skipped faster as she weighed that faint possibility. Time was running out—Father would be making his move soon. She needed to decide on a course of action, and quickly.

She could pull the trigger, kill her enemy, and end this now. And watch the Colonel die with him.

Or she could try to lead him to Dr. Marcoh, to destroy the Philosopher's Stone invading his body. But that would have no different outcome from her bullet. If Wrath and the Colonel were really one entity—and everything she saw was telling her that it was true—then obliterating the stone would still kill the man as well as the monster.

Or she could place her trust in whatever remained of the Colonel, and let him live.

The cool logic of the decision failed her, and she had to concentrate to keep her hands from shaking. It was an impossible, horrifying choice. Kill what was left of the man she loved, or let him live on as a monster? Even if she could trust him, the real Roy Mustang would never have wanted to live on at such a price. But could she even bring herself to kill him like this? She backed away uncertainly, keeping her gun trained on him as she frantically considered her options.

Wrath followed her, limping one step at a time, maintaining the same distance between them. He made no attempt to come any closer, and there was no anger visible in his remaining eye. But she kept slowly backing up anyway, through the door and into the corridor; when she felt herself run into the wall behind her, she continued retreating sideways, her mind racing.

The Colonel's words, and her grandfather's, echoed in her head: _Remember your promise from that day. Whatever you feel for the real Roy Mustang, don't let it cloud your judgment. Don't think, don't feel, don't hesitate._

He was still following. "I don't want to be your enemy, Riza," he said softly. "I never did. I meant it when I told you I loved you." He was speaking to her with the Colonel's voice, looking at her through the Colonel's gaze. The same longing gaze he'd poured out to her in those moments when he'd wrestled control of his body back from Wrath. "Part of me is still the man you remember," he insisted. He placed a hand against his chest. "I'm not dead, Lieutenant. I'm right here."

Unbidden, her gaze locked onto his. And at that moment she knew—she _knew. _Whatever Wrath had told her, however invincible he'd believed himself to be, Roy Mustang still lived within the body in front of her. And he was in control. Hawkeye took one more step backward and ground to a halt, as the last of her resistance crumbled, faded away. She was done retreating.

It took her a moment to find her voice. "I love you too," she answered him with a sad smile. "And I don't want to kill you." She swallowed the last of her fear; her mind was calm now, her decision made. "So I'm going to do what I've always done," she continued, her voice soft but determined. "I'm going to put my faith in you, Roy." Another heartbeat elapsed; then slowly, decisively, she lowered her gun.

He nodded, smiling gently, and took another step toward her.

"_NOW!" _she screamed.

Wrath's face contorted in shock and pain as he was abruptly engulfed in a huge ball of blue lightning. Behind him, positioned in his blind spot, stood Dr. Marcoh, his palm pressed against Wrath's back.

Hawkeye sagged against the wall, overwhelmed by a mix of relief and horror. She had found the alchemist in the circular room and brought him here, then left him hidden in an alcove when she went to confront Lust. The same alcove she had just maneuvered Wrath in front of. The homunculus began to jerk with spasms as if he were being electrocuted, as the red energy from his Philosopher's Stone began streaming out of him amidst the blue light.

"I don't want to kill you," she repeated, fighting the tears springing up in her eyes. "But I made a promise. I can't let the Colonel live as a monster—I just can't." All the gentleness was gone from the trapped creature, who was snarling at her with pure hatred as he convulsed in pain. It was Wrath in his true form; the monster she'd known was still there, lurking just beneath the Colonel's control.

"You've been wrong about a lot of things, Wrath," she continued determinedly, raising her voice over the crackle and thrum of electricity. "You thought you could absorb the Colonel quickly. You thought you could control him completely. And you thought the rest of us weren't strong enough to stop you. But none of those things were true."

She straightened and stared at him fully, fists clenched. "So I'm putting my faith in the man inside you. I'm gambling that he'll prove you wrong one last time!" Over the roar of alchemic energy, her voice rose to a shout: _"Let's find out how permanent your bond really is, Wrath!"_

The alchemy reached a crescendo, and Wrath screamed in agony and fury as a huge stream of red lightning shot upwards from his body, tearing a hole in the ceiling and dividing into hundreds of electric tendrils that dissipated into the air above them. Hawkeye felt hot tears hit her cheeks as she watched the Colonel's body suffering. But she stood fast, holding on to her absolute faith: _He's going to live through this. Somehow he'll find a way. _

And if she was wrong, if her gamble failed, at least she would have kept her promise. Even though her bullet would have been far kinder.

The outburst of energy proved too much for Marcoh to withstand, and he was knocked back against the wall behind him, breaking his contact with the homunculus. But the damage had already been dealt. Wrath continued to writhe in pain as his life force was consumed, the red energy lines crackling as they streamed away from his body. Finally the light began to dwindle until only a few faint tendrils remained.

Wrath remained standing—barely, as he swayed on his feet and weakly struggled to stay upright. With the last of his strength, his gaze met Hawkeye's; and when he spoke, it was with Bradley's voice. "Nicely…played…my dear," he gasped, managing a faint smile. "You were…a worthy opponent." Then his eye closed, his body slowly crumpled to the floor, and last of the red energy dissipated. Wrath was dead.

Hawkeye collapsed on her knees beside him and took his shoulders in her hands. His skin was covered with what looked like a fine layer of soot, and faint traces of smoke were emanating from his mouth and nose. He was still breathing—her heart beat faster with hope. "Colonel!" she yelled, shaking him frantically. There was no response.

Marcoh had also dropped to his knees, holding a Philosopher's Stone of his own. She moved back out of reach as he pressed both palms against Mustang's chest and a red glow spread over the fallen man's body. "Wrath was bonded to his bloodstream," Marcoh said somberly, "so his circulatory system was badly injured. I can repair the damage to his body, but…" His eyes met Hawkeye's sadly. "There's probably no one left inside. I'm sorry."

Hawkeye shook her head, refusing to hear his words. The body before her remained silent and unresponsive. Overwhelmed with grief and fear, unable to help in any way, she slammed her fists on the ground in frustration. "Damn it, Roy Mustang, don't you _dare_ leave me!" she yelled at the unconscious figure. She was on the edge of frenzy, only half aware of what she was saying. "If you do, I will find you, drag you back here, and beat the crap out of you! I don't care if I have to become an alchemist and perform human transmutation, I swear I'll—!"

She was interrupted as the body erupted in coughs. Then Mustang's undamaged eye slowly opened, and a bleary gaze found Hawkeye. "That won't be necessary, Lieutenant," he mumbled, managing a weak and lopsided smile. An astonished Marcoh finished his procedure and sat back as the glow from the stone faded.

Gasping, Hawkeye swept the Colonel up in her arms and hugged him tightly, tears spilling from her eyes. It was impossible, a miracle—but he had done it. Her final and most desperate gamble had paid off. He had come back to her.

With much effort he succeeded in dragging himself upright and returned her embrace, holding her just as tightly. "It's good to see you again, Lieutenant," he told her softly.

"You too, Colonel," she whispered, overcome with emotion. After a moment, she pulled away. "It is you…?" she asked, scanning his face anxiously.

He chuckled quietly. "Yes. It's me. And _only_ me."

"How did you survive, Mustang?" demanded Marcoh from over Hawkeye's shoulder, wonder in his voice. "Your soul was bonded to the Philosopher's Stone. How did you avoid being destroyed along with it?"

"I managed to separate from Wrath one last time as he was disintegrating," he answered, exhaustion evident in his voice. "He had it half right. Our bond was permanent, but only as long as the stone remained intact. It was the one variable he couldn't predict—and my last opportunity to break free. Even then, I almost didn't make it." He shuddered faintly, reliving an internal battle that only he could see. "I owe you one, Marcoh," he added.

Then he smiled tenderly at Hawkeye and touched her cheek, still damp with tears. "And I especially owe you, Lieutenant. Both my thanks, and a sincere apology for everything I've put you through." His hand moved to the stab wound in her shoulder, her makeshift bandage soaked with blood. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to stop him. He hurt you pretty badly," he said, regret in his voice.

She returned his smile. "Just doing my job, sir. Someone has to watch your back." The professional bravado sounded empty and inadequate now. The air hung heavy with unsaid words, so many things they couldn't speak of while a battle raged around them. But they would talk later; when they were safe, when there was time. When they were alone.

"Will you let me fix that shoulder now, Lieutenant?" interjected Marcoh. "You've lost a lot of blood."

Hawkeye nodded, running her fingers through her bangs with sudden urgency. She wanted nothing more than to rest, recover, and savor this victory. But the Promised Day was far from over, and they needed to get moving to catch up to Edward and the others. "All right, but please make it quick, doctor."

"She's an even more stubborn patient than you are, Mustang," Marcoh chuckled as he removed Hawkeye's bandage. He picked up his Philosopher's Stone, then froze in place.

Below him, the floor had begun to glow in an intense alchemical reaction. A gap opened up within the glow, revealing something that looked like a huge eye, with thin streamers of black energy shooting out from it. "No—Marcoh!" Mustang shouted. He and Hawkeye both grabbed for the older man, attempting to pull him away from the eye, but there was nothing solid to hold onto. Marcoh was coming apart in the air, disappearing as they watched in horror.

"We can't help him!" exclaimed Mustang, struggling to his feet. "He's the fifth human sacrifice. It's starting. We need to go, _now!_" His face wore an emotion that Hawkeye had never seen on him before: terror. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a run.

Neither of them could run very fast. Marcoh's healing efforts had repaired the Colonel's worst injuries, but he was still weakened and limping badly. Hawkeye had already lost enough blood to make her lightheaded, and now that her shoulder was free of its bandage, she was losing even more. But they both ran with all of their strength.

"Where are we going?" she gasped.

"To the center of the complex. We'll be shielded there."

She couldn't spare the breath to ask any more questions. Shielded from the human transmutation reaction, he must mean. It was the same place Wrath had ordered his honor guard to take her. Whatever was about to happen, Wrath had wanted her to be protected from it—perhaps the creature had truly had feelings for her, as he'd claimed. Well, that hardly mattered now. The Colonel's hand still held hers as they ran, and she squeezed it.

Following his lead, they descended a staircase and made an abrupt right turn into a tunnel lined with pipes. Hawkeye stumbled and fell to the ground, her body suddenly leaden and sluggish. _I've lost too much blood_, she thought frantically; but she managed to turn her head and saw that the Colonel had also fallen.

"We didn't make it," he gasped, and now the fear he wore was joined by sorrow and regret.

They had just enough strength to find their way into each other's arms before their souls were torn away.

* * *

_Next chapter: The final battle with Father! _

_Notes: It may take me a few weeks to get the next chapter up. I confess that getting the last three posted in three weeks has worn me out. But I hope you found the results worthwhile._

_As always, a huge *thank you* to everyone who left reviews! :) I'm way behind on responses for the last chapter—but I figured you'd probably rather read this before my silly PMs anyway. ;) _


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